Cf.AR 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


AFTERWARDS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


WORKS    BY   IAN    MACLAREN 


BESIDE  THE  BONNIE  BRIER  BUSH 

THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  STNE 

A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 

KATE  CARNEGIE 

AFTERWARDS 

THE  UPPER  ROOM 

THE  MIND  OF  THE  MASTER 

THE  CURE  OF  SOULS 

THE  POTTER'S  WHEEL 

COMPANIONS  OF  THE  SORROWFUL  WAY 

THE  IAN  MACLAREN  YEAR-BOOK 


AFTERWARDS 

AND   OTHER  STORIES 
BY 

IAN  MACLAREN 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   &  COMPANY 
1898 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  1896.  BY  THE  S.  S.  McCtuRE  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1895,  1896,  1897,  1898,  BY  JOHN  WATSON. 

COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY. 


BURR  PRINTING  HOUSE,  NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      AFTERWARDS 3 

II.  THE  MINISTER  OF  ST.   BEDE'S     ....  37 

III.  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN     .......  73 

IV.  RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 93 

V.     A  PROBATIONER 115 

VI.     A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 137 

VII.  THE  RIGHT  HAND  OF  SAMUEL  DODSON.     .  157 

VIII.     SAVED  BY  FAITH 201 

IX.     THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 225 

X.     AN   EVANGELIST 245 

XI.  THE  COLLECTOR'S  INCONSISTENCY      .     .     .  269 

XII.     FATHER  JINKS 301 

XIII.  THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    ......  339 

XIV.  DR.   DAVIDSON'S  LAST  CHRISTMAS     .      .      .  359 


AFTERWARDS 


AFTERWARDS 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


AFTERWARDS 


He  received  the  telegram  in  a  garden,  where  he 
was  gazing  on  a  vision  of  blue,  set  in  the  fronds 
of  a  palm,  and  listening  to  the  song  of  the  fishers, 
as  it  floated  across  the  bay. 

"  You  look  so  utterly  satisfied,"  said  his  hostess, 
in  the  high,  clear  voice  of  Englishwomen,  "  that 
I  know  you  are  tasting  the  luxury  of  a  contrast. 
The  Riviera  is  charming  in  December;  imagine 
London,  and  Cannes  is  Paradise." 

As  he  smiled  assent  in  the  grateful  laziness  of 
a  hard-worked  man,  his  mind  was  stung  with  the 
remembrance  of  a  young  wife  swathed  in  the  dreary 
fog,  who,  above  all  things,  loved  the  open  air  and 
the  shining  of  the  sun. 

Her  plea  was  that  Bertie  would  weary  alone, 
and  that  she  hated  travelling,  but  it  came  to  him 
quite  suddenly  that  this  was  always  the  pro- 

3 


4  AFTERWARDS 

gramme  of  their  holidays — some  Mediterranean 
villa,  full  of  clever  people,  for  him,  and  the  awful 
dulness  of  that  Bloomsbury  street  for  her;  or  he 
went  North  to  a  shooting-lodge,  where  he  told  his 
best  stories  in  the  smoking-room,  after  a  long  day 
on  the  purple  heather;  and  she  did  her  best  for 
Bertie  at  some  watering-place,  much  frequented  on 
account  of  its  railway  facilities  and  economical 
lodgings.  Letters  of  invitation  had  generally  a 
polite  reference  to  his  wife — "  If  Mrs.  Trevor  can 
accompany  you  I  shall  be  still  more  delighted" — 
but  it  was  understood  that  she  would  not  accept. 

"  We  have  quite  a  grudge  against  Mrs.  Trevor, 
because  she  will  never  come  with  her  husband; 
there  is  some  beautiful  child  who  monopolises  her," 
his  hostess  would  explain  on  his  arrival ;  and  Trevor 
allowed  it  to  be  understood  that  his  wife  was  quite 
devoted  to  Bertie,  and  would  be  miserable  without 
him. 

When  he  left  the  room,  it  was  explained :  "  Mrs. 
Trevor  is  a  hopelessly  quiet  person,  what  is  called 
a  '  good  wife,'  you  know." 

"  The  only  time  she  dined  with  us,  Tottie  Fribbyl 
— he  was  a  Theosophist  then,  it's  two  years  ago — 
was  too  amusing  for  words,  and  told  us  what  in- 
carnation he  was  going  through. 
t  "  Mrs.  Trevor,  I  believe,  had  never  heard  of  The- 
osophy,  and  looked  quite  horrified  at  the  idea  of 
poor  Tottie's  incarnation. 

"  '  Isn't  it  profane  to  use  such  words  ? '  she  said 


AFTERWARDS  5 

to  me.  So  I  changed  to  skirt  dancing,  and  would 
you  believe  me,  she  had  never  seen  it? 

"  What  can  you  do  with  a  woman  like  that  ? 
Nothing  remains  but  religion  and  the  nursery. 
Why  do  clever  men  marry  those  impossible 
women  ?  " 

Trevor  was  gradually  given  to  understand,  as 
by  an  atmosphere,  that  he  was  a  brilliant  man 
wedded  to  a  dull  wife,  and  there  were  hours — his 
worst  hours — when  he  agreed. 

Cara  mia,  cara  mia,  sang  the  sailors;  and  his 
wife's  face  in  its  perfect  refinement  and  sweet  beauty 
suddenly  replaced  the  Mediterranean. 

Had  he  belittled  his  wife,  with  her  wealth  of  sac- 
rifice and  delicate  nature,  beside  women  in  spectacles 
who  wrote  on  the  bondage  of  marriage,  and  leaders 
of  fashion  who  could  talk  of  everything  from  horse- 
racing  to  palmistry? 

He  had  only  glanced  at  her  last  letter;  now  he 
read  it  carefully: — 

"  The  flowers  were  lovely,  and  it  was  so  mindful 
of  you  to  send  them,  just  like  my  husband.  Bertie 
and  I  amused  ourselves  arranging  and  rearranging 
them  in  glasses,  till  we  had  made  our  tea-table 
lovely.  But  I  was  just  one  little  bit  disappointed 
not  to  get  a  letter — you  see  how  exacting  I  am, 
sir.  I  waited  for  every  post,  and  Bertie  said,  '  Has 
father's  letter  come  yet  ? '  When  one  is  on  holi- 
day, writing  letters  is  an  awful  bore;  but  please 
just  a  line  to  Bertie  and  me.  We  have  a  map 


6  AFTERWARDS 

of  the  Riviera,  and  found  out  all  the  places  you 
have  visited  in  the  yacht;  and  we  tried  to  im- 
agine you  sailing  on  that  azure  sea,  and  landing 
among  those  silver  olives.  I  am  so  grateful  to 
every  one  for  being  kind  to  you,  and  I  hope  you 
will  enjoy  yourself  to  the  full.  Bertie  is  a  little 
stronger,  I'm  sure;  his  cheeks  were  quite  rosy 
to-day  for  him.  It  was  his  birthday  on  Wednes- 
day, and  I  gave  him  a  little  treat.  The  sun  was 
shining  brightly  in  the  forenoon,  and  we  had  a 
walk  in  the  Gardens,  and  made  believe  that  it 
was  Italy!  Then  we  went  to  Oxford  Street,  and 
Bertie  chose  a  regiment  of  soldiers  for  his  birthday 
present.  He  wished  some  guns  so  much  that  I 
allowed  him  to  have  them  as  a  present  from  you. 
They  only  cost  one-and-sixpence,  and  I  thought 
you  would  like  him  to  have  something.  Jane  and 
he  had  a  splendid  game  of  hide-and-seek  in  the 
evening,  and  my  couch  was  the  den,  so  you  see 
we  have  our  own  gaiety  in  Bloomsbury. 

"  Don't  look  sulky  at  this  long  scribble  and  say, 
'  What  nonsense  women  write ! '  for  it  is  almost  the 
same  as  speaking  to  you,  and  I  shall  imagine  the 
letter  all  the  way  till  you  open  it  in  the  sunshine. 

"  So  smile  and  kiss  my  name,  for  this  comes  with 
my  heart's  love  from 

"  Your  devoted  wife, 

"  MAUD  TREVOR. 

"  P.S. — Don't  be  alarmed  because  I  have  to  rest; 


AFTERWARDS  7 

the  doctor  does  not  think  that  there  is  any  danger, 
and  I'll  take  great  care." 

"  A  telegram."  It  was  the  shattering  of  a 
dream.  "  How  wicked  of  some  horrid  person. 
Business  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  enter  Para- 
dise. Let's 'hope  it's  pleasure;  perhaps  some  one 
has  won  a  lot  of  money  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  wishes 
us  to  celebrate  the  affair. 

"Whom  is  it  for?  Oh!  Mr.  Edward  Trevor; 
then  it's  a  brief  by  telegraph,  I  suppose.  Some 
millionaire's  will  case,  and  the  Attorney-General 
can't  manage  it  alone.  What  a  man  he  is,  to  have 
briefs  in  holiday  time. 

"  There  it  is,  but  remember,  before  you  open 
it,  that  you  are  bound  to  remain  here  over  Christ- 
mas at  any  rate,  and  help  us  with  our  theatricals. 
My  husband  declares  that  a  successful  barrister 
must  be  a  born  actor."  .  .  . 

An  hour  later  Trevor  was  in  the  Paris  express, 
and  for  thirty  hours  he  prayed  one  petition,  that 
she  might  live  till  he  arrived.  He  used  to  have 
a  berth  in  the  Wagon  Lit  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  had  begun  to  complain  about  the  champagne 
in  the  dining-car,  but  the  thought  of  comfort  made 
him  wince  on  this  journey,  and  he  twice  changed 
his  carriage,  once  when  an  English  party  would 
not  cease  from  badinage  that  mocked  his  ears, 
and  again  because  a  woman  had  brown  eyes  with 
her  expression  of  dog-like  faithfulness.  The  dark- 


8  AFTERWARDS 

ness  of  the  night  after  that  sunlit  garden,  and  the 
monotonous  roar  of  the  train,  and  the  face  of 
smiling  France  covered  with  snow,  and  the  yeasty 
waters  of  the  Channel,  and  the  moaning  of  the  wind, 
filled  his  heart  with  dread. 

Will  that  procession  of  luggage  at  Dover  never 
come  to  an  end?  A  French  seaman — a  fellow 
with  earrings  and  a  merry  face — appears  and  re- 
appears with  maddening  regularity,  each  time  with 
a  larger  trunk.  One  had  X.  Y.  on  it  in  big  white 
letters.  Why  not  Z.  also?  Who  could  have  such 
a  name?  That  is  a  lady's  box,  black  and  brown, 
plastered  with  hotel  labels.  Some  bride,  perhaps 
.  .  .  They  are  carrying  the  luggage  over  his 
heart.  Have  they  no  mercy  ? 

The  last  piece  is  in,  and  the  sailors  make  a 
merry  group  at  the  top  of  the  gangway.  They 
look  like  Bretons,  and  that  fellow  is  laughing  again 
— some  story  about  a  little  child;  he  can  just  hear 
Ma  petite.  .  .  .. 

"  Guard,  is  this  train  never  to  start  ?  We're 
half-an-hour  late  already." 

"  Italian  mail  very  heavy,  sir ;  still  bringing  up 
bags;  so  many  people  at  Riviera  in  winter,  writing 
home  to  their  friends."  .  .  . 

How  cruel  every  one  is!  He  had  not  written 
for  ten  days.  Something  always  happened,  an  en- 
gagement of  pleasure.  There  was  a  half-finished 
letter ;  he  had  left  it  to  join  a  Monte  Carlo  party. 

"  Writing  letters — home,  of  course,  to  that  idol- 


AFTERWARDS  9 

ised  wife.  It's  beautiful,  and  you  are  an  example 
to  us  all ;  but  Mrs.  Trevor  will  excuse  descriptions 
of  scenery;  she  knows  you  are  enjoying  yourself." 

Had  she  been  expecting  that  letter  from  post 
to  post,  calculating  the  hour  of  each  delivery, 
identifying  the  postman's  feet  in  that  quiet  street, 
holding  her  breath  when  he  rang,  stretching  her 
hand  for  a  letter,  to  let  it  drop  unopened,  and 
bury  her  face  in  the  pillow?  Had  she  died 
waiting  for  a  letter  that  never  came?  Those  let- 
ters that  he  wrote  from  the  Northern  Circuit  in  that 
first  sweet  year,  a  letter  a  day,  and  one  day  two — 
it  had  given  him  a  day's  advantage  over  her. 
Careful  letters,  too,  though  written  between  cases, 
with  bits  of  description  and  amusing  scenes.  Some 
little  sameness  towards  the  end,  but  she  never  com- 
plained of  that,  and  even  said  those  words  were  the 
best.  And  that  trick  he  played — the  thought  of 
the  postman  must  have  brought  it  up — how  pleasant 
it  was,  and  what  a  success !  He  would  be  his  own 
letter  one  day,  and  take  her  by  surprise.  "  A  let- 
ter, ma'am,"  the  girl  said — quite  a  homely  girl,  who 
shared  their  little  joys  and  anxieties — and  then  he 
showed  his  face  with  apologies  for  intrusion.  The 
flush  of  love  in  her  face,  will  it  be  like  that  to-night, 
or  ...  What  can  be  keeping  the  train  now? 
Is  this  a  conspiracy  to  torment  a  miserable  man  ? 

He  thrusts  his  head  out  of  the  window  in  despair, 
and  sees  the  guard  trying  to  find  a  compartment 
for  a  family  that  had  mistaken  their  train. 


io  AFTERWARDS 

The  husband  is  explaining,  with  English  gar- 
rulity, all  the  station  hearing,  what  an  inconven- 
ience it  would  have  been  had  they  gone  in  the  Hoi- 
born  Viaduct  carriages. 

"  Half  an  hour's  longer  drive,  you  know,  and  it's 
very  important  we  should  get  home  in  time ;  we  are 
expected  .  .  ." 

For  what?  Dinner,  most  likely.  What  did  it 
matter  when  they  got  home,  to-day  or  next  year? 
Yet  he  used  to  be  angry  if  he  were  made  late  for 
dinner.  They  come  into  his  compartment,  and  ex- 
plain the  situation  at  great  length,  while  he  pretends 
to  listen. 

A  husband  and  wife  returning  from  a  month 
in  Italy,  full  of  their  experiences :  the  Corniche 
Road,  the  palaces  of  Genoa,  the  pictures  in  the 
Pitti,  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.  Her  first  visit  to  the 
Continent,  evidently;  it  reminded  them  of  a  cer- 
tain tour  round  the  Lakes  in  '80,  and  she  with- 
drew her  hand  from  her  husband's  as  the  train 
came  out  from  the  tunnel.  They  were  not  smart 
people — very  pronounced  middle-class — but  they 
were  lovers,  after  fifteen  years. 

They  forgot  him,  who  was  staring  on  the  bleak 
landscape  with  white,  pinched  face. 

"  How  kind  to  take  me  this  trip.  I  know  how 
much  you  denied  yourself,  but  it  has  made  me 
young  again,"  and  she  said  "  Edward."  Were  all 
these  coincidences  arranged?  had  his  purgatorio 
begun  already? 


AFTERWARDS  n 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Globe,  sir  ?  Bosworth, 
M.P.  for  Pedlington,  has  been  made  a  judge,  and 
there's  to  be  a  keen  contest. 

"  Trevor,  I  see,  is  named  as  the  Tory  candidate — 
a  clever  fellow,  I've  heard.  Do  you  know  about 
him  ?  he's  got  on  quicker  than  any  man  of  his  years. 

"  Some  say  that  it's  his  manner;  he's  such  a  good 
sort,  the  juries  cannot  resist  him,  a  man  told  me — 
a  kind  heart  goes  for  something  even  in  a  lawyer. 
Would  you  like  to  look?  .  .  . 

"  Very  sorry ;  would  you  take  a  drop  of  brandy  ? 
No  ?  The  passage  was  a  little  rough,  and  you  don't 
look  quite  up  to  the  mark." 

Then  they  left  him  in  peace,  and  he  drank  his 
cup  to  the  dregs. 

It  was  for  Pedlington  he  had  been  working  and 
saving,  for  a  seat  meant  society  and  the  bench, 
perhaps.  .  .  .  What  did  it  matter  now? 

She  was  to  come  and  sit  within  the  cage  when 
he  made  his  first  speech,  and  hear  all  the  remarks. 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  a  success,  for  you  do  every- 
thing well,  and  your  wifie  will  be  the  proudest 
woman  in  London. 

"  Sir  Edward  Trevor,  M.P.  I  know  it's  foolish, 
but  it's  the  foolishness  of  love,  dear,  so  don't  look 
cross ;  you  are  everything  to  me,  and  no  one  loves 
you  as  I  do." 

What  are  they  slowing  for  now?  There's  no 
station.  Did  ever  train  drag  like  this  one? 

Off  again,  thank  God     ...     if  she  only  were 


12  AFTERWARDS 

conscious,  and  he  could  ask  her  to  forgive  his  sel- 
fishness. 

At  last,  and  the  train  glides  into  Victoria.  No, 
he  had  nothing  to  declare;  would  they  let  him  go, 
or  they  might  keep  his  luggage  altogether. 

Some  vision  was  ever  coming  up,  and  now  he 
saw  her  kneeling  on  the  floor  and  packing  that 
portmanteau,  the  droop  of  her  figure,  her  thin 
white  hands. 

He  was  so  busy  that  she  did  these  offices  for 
him — tried  to  buckle  the  straps  even ;  but  he  insisted 
on  doing  that.  It  gave  him  half  an  hour  longer  at 
the  Club.  What  a  brute  he  had  been.  .  .  . 

"  Do  anything  you  like  with  my  things.  I'll 
come  to-morrow  ...  as  fast  as  you  can 
drive." 

Huddled  in  a  corner  of  the  hansom  so  that  you 
might  have  thought  he  slept,  this  man  was  calcu- 
lating every  foot  of  the  way,  gloating  over  a  long 
stretch  of  open,  glistening  asphalt,  hating  unto 
murder  the  immovable  drivers  whose  huge  vans 
blocked  his  passage.  If  they  had  known,  there  was 
no  living  man  but  would  have  made  room  for  him 
.  .  .  but  he  had  not  known  himself.  .  .  . 
Only  one  word  to  tell  her  he  knew  now. 

As  the  hansom  turned  into  the  street  he  bent  for- 
ward, straining  his  eyes  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  home.  Had  it  been  day-time  the  blinds  would 
have  told  their  tale ;  now  it  was  the  light  he  watched. 

Dark  on  the  upper  floors;  no  sick  light  burn- 


AFTERWARDS  13 

ing  .  .  .  have  mercy  .  .  .  then  the  blood 
came  back  to  his  heart  with  a  rush.  How  could  he 
have  forgotten? 

Their  room  was  at  the  back  for  quietness,  and 
it  might  still  be  well.  Some  one  had  been  watch- 
ing, for  the  door  was  instantly  opened,  but  he  could 
not  see  the  servanf s  face. 

A  doctor  came  forward  and  beckoned  him  to  go 
into  the  study.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  if  his  whole  nature  had  been  smitten 
with  insensibility,  for  he  knew  everything  without 
words,  and  yet  he  heard  the  driver  demanding  his 
fare,  and  noticed  that  the  doctor  had  been  reading 
the  evening  paper  while  he  waited ;  he  saw  the  para- 
graph about  that  seat. 

What  work  those  doctors  have  to  do.     .     .     .; 

"  It  was  an  hour  ago  ...  we  were  amazed 
that  she  lived  so  long;  with  any  other  woman  it 
would  have  been  this  morning;  but  she  was  deter- 
mined to  live  till  you  came  home. 

"  It  was  not  exactly  will-power,  for  she  was  the 
gentlest  patient  I  ever  had ;  it  was  " — the  doctor 
hesitated — a  peremptory  Scotchman  hiding  a  heart 
of  fire  beneath  a  coating  of  ice — "  it  was  simply 
love." 

When  the  doctor  had  folded  up  the  evening  paper, 
and  laid  it  on  a  side  table,  which  took  some  time, 
he  sat  down  opposite  that  fixed,  haggard  face,  which 
had  not  yet  been  softened  by  a  tear. 

"  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  everything  if  you  desire  me ; 


14  AFTERWARDS 

perhaps  it  will  relieve  your  mind ;  and  Mrs.  Trevor 
said  you  would  wish  to  know,  and  I  must  be  here 
to  receive  you.  Her  patience  and  thoughtfulness 
were  marvellous. 

"  I  attend  many  very  clever  and  charming  women, 
but  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Trevor,  not  one  has  so  impressed 
me  as  your  wife.  Her  self-forgetfulness  passed 
words;  she  thought  of  every  one  except  herself; 
why,  one  of  the  last  things  she  did  was  to  give  di- 
rections about  your  room ;  she  was  afraid  you  might 
feel  the  change  from  the  Riviera.  But  that  is  by 
the  way,  and  these  things  are  not  my  business. 

"  From  the  beginning  I  was  alarmed,  and  urged 
that  you  should  be  sent  for ;  but  she  pledged  me  not 
to  write;  you  needed  your  holiday,  she  said,  and 
it  must  not  be  darkened  with  anxiety. 

"  She  spoke  every  day  about  your  devotion  and 
unselfishness ;  how  you  wished  her  to  go  with  you, 
but  she  had  to  stay  with  the  boy.  .  .  . 

"  The  turn  for  the  worse  ?  it  was  yesterday  morn- 
ing, and  I  had  Sir  Reginald  at  once.  We  agreed 
that  recovery  was  hopeless,  and  I  telegraphed  to 
you  without  delay. 

"  We  also  consulted  whether  she  ought  to  be 
told,  and  Sir  Reginald  said,  '  Certainly ;  that  woman 
has  no  fear,  for  she  never  thinks  of  herself,  and  she 
will  want  to  leave  messages.' 

r '  If  we  can  only  keep  her  alive  till  to-morrow 
afternoon/  he  said,  and  you  will  like  to  remember 
that  everything  known  to  the  best  man  in  London 


AFTERWARDS  15 

was  done.  Sir  Reginald  came  back  himself  un- 
asked to-day,  because  he  remembered  a  restora- 
tive that  might  sustain  the  failing  strength.  She 
thanked  him  so  sweetly  that  he  was  quite  shaken; 
the  fact  is,  that  both  of  us  would  soon  have  played 
the  fool.  But  I  ought  not  to  trouble  you  with  these 
trifles  at  this  time,  only  as  you  wanted  to  know 
all.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  she  understood  what  we  thought  before 
I  spoke,  and  only  asked  when  you  would  arrive. 
*  I  want  to  say  "  Good-bye,"  and  then  I  will  be 
ready,'  but  perhaps.  .  .  . 

"'Tell  you  everything?'  That  is  what  I  am 
trying  to  do,  and  I  was  here  nearly  all  day,  for  I 
had  hoped  we  might  manage  to  fulfil  her  wish. 

"  No,  she  did  not  speak  much,  for  we  enjoined 
silence  and  rest  as  the  only  chance;  but  she  had 
your  photograph  on  the  pillow,  and  some  flowers 
you  had  sent. 

"  They  were  withered,  and  the  nurse  removed 
them  when  she  was  sleeping;  but  she  missed  them, 
and  we  had  to  put  them  in  her  hands.  '  My  hus- 
band was  so  thoughtful.' 

"  This  is  too  much  for  you,  I  see ;  it  is  simply 
torture.  Wait  till  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  if  you  insist.  Expecting  a  letter  .  .  . 
yes  ...  let  me  recollect.  .  .  .  No,  I  am 
not  hiding  anything,  but  you  must  not  let  this  get 
upon  your  mind. 

"  We  would  have  deceived  her,  but  she  knew  the 


16  AFTERWARDS 

hour  of  the  Continental  mails,  and  could  detect 
the  postman's  ring.  Once  a  letter  came,  and  she 
insisted  upon  seeing  it  in  case  of  any  mistake. 
But  it  was  only  an  invitation  for  you,  I  think,  to 
some  country  house. 

"  It  can't  be  helped  now,  and  you  ought  not  to 
vex  yourself ;  but  I  believe  a  letter  would  have  done 
more  for  her  than  .  .  .  What  am  I  saying 
now? 

"As  she  grew  weaker  she  counted  the  hours,  and 
I  left  her  at  four  full  of  hope.  '  Two  hours  more 
and  he'll  be  here,'  and  by  that  time  she  had  your 
telegram  in  her  hand. 

"  When  I  came  back  the  change  had  come,  and 
she  said,  '  It's  not  God's  will ;  bring  Bertie.' 

"  So  she  kissed  him,  and  said  something  to  him, 
but  we  did  not  listen.  After  the  nurse  had  carried 
him  out — for  he  was  weeping  bitterly,  poor  little 
chap — she  whispered  to  me  to  get  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  sit  down  by  her  bedside.  ...  I  think  it 
would  be  better  .  .  .  very  well,  I  will  tell  you 
all. 

"  I  wrote  what  she  dictated  with  her  last  breath, 
and  I  promised  you  would  receive  it  from  her  own 
hand,  and  so  you  will.  She  turned  her  face  to  the 
door  and  lay  quite  still  till  about  six,  when  I  heard 
her  say  your  name  very  softly,  and  a  minute  after- 
wards she  was  gone,  without  pain  or  strug- 
gle."  .  .  . 

She  lay  as  she  had  died,  waiting  for  his  coming, 


AFTERWARDS  17 

and  the  smile  with  which  she  had  said  his  name 
was  still  on  her  face.  It  was  the  first  time  she  did 
not  colour  with  joy  at  his  coming,  that  her  hand  was 
cold  to  his  touch.  He  kissed  her,  but  his  heart 
was  numbed,  and  he  could  not  weep. 

Then  he  took  her  letter  and  read  it  beside  that 
silence. 

"  DEAREST, — 

They  tell  me  now  that  I  shall  not  live  to  see  you 
come  in  and  to  cast  my  arms  once  more  round  your 
neck  before  we  part.  Be  kind  to  Bertie,  and  remem- 
ber that  he  is  delicate  and  shy.  He  will  miss  me, 
and  you  will  be  patient  with  him  for  my  sake. 
Give  him  my  watch,  and  do  not  let  him  forget  me. 
My  locket  with  your  likeness  I  would  like  left  on  my 
heart.  You  will  never  know  how  much  I  have  loved 
you,  for  I  could  never  speak.  You  have  been  very 
good  to  me,  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am 
grateful ;  but  it  is  better  perhaps  that  I  should  die, 
for  I  might  hinder  you  in  your  future  life.  Forgive 
me  because  I  came  short  of  what  your  wife  should 
have  been.  None  can  ever  love  you  better.  You 
will  take  these  poor  words  from  a  dead  hand,  but 
I  shall  see  you,  and  I  shall  never  cease  to  love  you, 
to  follow  your  life,  to  pray  for  you — my  first,  my 
only  love." 

The  fountains  within  him  were  broken,  and  he 
flung  himself  down  by  the  bedside  in  an  agony  of 
repentance. 


1 8  AFTERWARDS 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  known  before ;  but  now  it  is  too 
late,  too  late !  " 

For  we  sin  against  our  dearest  not  because  we 
do  not  love,  but  because  we  do  not  imagine. 


AFTERWARDS  19 


II 


Maud  Trevor  was  a  genuine  woman,  and  kept 
her  accounts  with  the  aid  of  six  purses.  One  was 
an  ancient  housewife  of  her  grandmother's,  which 
used  to  be  equipped  with  silk  and  thread  and  needles 
and  buttons,  and  from  a  secret  place  yielded  to  the 
third  generation  a  bank  note  of  value.  This  capa- 
cious receptacle  was  evidently  intended  for  the 
household  exchequer,  whose  transactions  were  in- 
numerable, and  whose  monthly  budget  depended 
for  success  on  an  unfailing  supply  of  copper.  An- 
other had  come  from  her  mother,  and  was  of  obsolete 
design — a  bag  closed  at  both  extremities,  with  a 
long  narrow  slit  in  the  middle,  and  two  rings  which 
compressed  the  gold  into  one  end  and  the  silver 
into  the  other.  This  was  marked  out  by  Providence 
for  charity,  since  it  made  no  provision  for  pennies, 
and  laid  a  handicap  of  inconvenience  on  threepenny 
bits.  It  retained  a  subtle  trace  of  an  old-fashioned 
scent  her  mother  loved,  and  recalled  her  mother 
going  out  on  some  errand  of  mercy — a  St.  Clare 
in  her  sacrifices  and  devotion.  Purse  three  de- 
scended from  her  father,  and  was  an  incarnation 
of  business — made  of  chamois  leather  with  a  steel 
clasp  that  closed  with  a  click,  having  three  com- 


20  AFTERWARDS 

partments  within,  one  of  which  had  its  own  clasp 
and  was  reserved  for  gold.  In  this  bank  Maud 
kept  the  funds  of  a  clothing  society,  whose  more 
masterly  bargains  ran  sometimes  into  farthings, 
and  she  was  always  haunted  with  anxiety  lest  a  new 
farthing  and  a  half  sovereign  should  some  day 
change  places.  A  pretty  little  purse  with  ivory 
sides  and  silver  hinges — a  birthday  gift  of  her 
girlhood — was  large  enough  to  hold  her  dress 
allowance,  which  Trevor  had  fixed  at  a  most  gener- 
ous rate  when  he  had  barely  four  hundred  a  year, 
and  had  since  forgotten  to  increase.  One  in  seal- 
skin had  been  a  gift  of  engagement  days,  and  held 
the  savings  of  the  year  against  birthday  and  Christ- 
mas presents — whose  contents  were  the  subject  of 
many  calculations.  A  cast-off  purse  of  Trevor's 
had  been  devoted  to  Bertie,  and  from  its  resources 
came  one  way  or  other  all  he  needed ;  but  it  hap- 
pened that  number  six  was  constantly  reinforced 
from  the  purse  with  the  ivory  sides. 

Saturday  afternoon  was  sacred  to  book-keeping, 
and  Maud  used  her  bed  as  a  table  for  this  critical 
operation,  partly  because  it  was  so  much  larger 
than  an  escritoire,  but  chiefly  because  you  could 
empty  the  purses  into  little  pools  with  steep  pro- 
tecting banks.  Of  course  if  one  sat  down  hurriedly 
there  was  great  danger  of  amalgamation,  with  quite 
hopeless  consequences ;  and  Trevor  held  over  Maud's 
head  the  chance  of  his  making  this  mistake.  It 
was  his  way,  before  he  grew  too  busy,  to  watch  till 


AFTERWARDS  11 

the  anxious  face  would  suddenly  brighten  and  a 
rapid  change  be  made  in  the  pools — the  household 
contributing  something  to  presents  and  the  dress 
purse  to  Bertie,  while  private  and  public  charity 
would  accommodate  each  other  with  change. 
Caresses  were  strictly  forbidden  in  those  times  of 
abstruse  calculation,  and  the  Evil  One  who  stands 
at  every  man's  elbow  once  tempted  Trevor  to  roll 
the  counterpane  into  a  bundle — purses,  money,  and 
all — but  Maud,  when  he  confessed,  said  that  no 
human  being  would  be  allowed  to  fall  into  such 
wickedness. 

Trevor  was  obliged  to  open  her  wardrobe,  four- 
teen days  after  the  funeral,  and  the  first  thing  he 
lighted  upon  was  the  purses.  They  lay  in  a  row 
on  an  old  account-book — a  motley  set  indeed — but 
so  absurd  and  tricky  a  spirit  is  pathos,  they  affected 
him  more  swiftly  than  the  sight  of  a  portrait.  Was 
ever  any  one  so  faithful  and  conscientious,  so  self- 
forgetful  and  kind,  so  capable  also  and  clever  in 
her  own  sphere?  Latterly  he  had  sneered  at  the 
purses,  and  once,  being  vexed  at  something  in  a 
letter,  he  had  told  Maud  she  ought  to  have  done 
with  that  folly  and  keep  her  accounts  like  an  edu- 
cated woman.  "  A  girl  of  twelve  would  be 
ashamed."  .  .  .  What  a  merciless  power 
memory  wields.  She  only  drooped  her  head, 
.  .  .  it  was  on  the  sealskin  purse  the  tear  fell, 
and  at  once  he  saw  the  bend  of  the  Wye  at  Tin- 
tern  where  he  had  surprised  her  with  the  gift  of  that 


22  AFTERWARDS 

purse.  He  was  moved  to  kiss  away  that  tear,  but 
his  heart  hardened.  Why  could  she  not  be  like  the 
women  he  knew?  .  .  .  Well,  he  would  not  be 
troubled  any  longer  with  her  simple  ways  .  .  . 
he  could  do  as  he  pleased  now  with  the  purses. 
.  .  .  A  bitter  madness  of  grief  took  possession 
of  him,  and  he  arranged  them  on  the  bed. 

One  was  empty,  the  present  purse,  and  he  under- 
stood .  .  .  the  dress  purse,  of  course,  a  little 
silver  only  .  .  .  the  rest  had  gone  that  he 
might  have  something  beautiful.  .  .  .  He  knew 
that  it  must  be  done  sooner  or  later,  and  to-day  was 
best,  for  his  heart  could  be  no  sorer.  .  .  .  Yes, 
here  they  were,  the  ungiven  gifts.  For  every  per- 
son, from  himself  to  the  nurse ;  all  wrapped  in  soft, 
white  paper  and  ready  in  good  time.  .  .  .  She 
used  to  arrange  everything  on  Christmas  Eve 
.  .  .  this  year  he  had  intended  to  stay  at  Cannes, 
.  .  .  there  would  just  have  been  Bertie  and  his 
mother,  now.  .  .  .  But  he  must  open  it — an 
inkstand  for  his  study  in  solid  brass,  with  pens  and 
other  things  complete — he  noted  every  detail  as  if 
to  estimate  its  value.  It  came  back  to  him  how 
she  had  cunningly  questioned  him  about  his  needs 
before  he  left  for  Cannes,  till  he  grew  impa- 
tient. "  Don't  bother  me  about  ink-bottles."  Yes, 
the  very  words,  and  others  .  .  .  the  secret 
writing  of  memory  came  out  in  this  fire  of  sorrow. 
"  Why  won't  women  understand  that  a  man  can't 
answer  questions  about  trifles  when  he  has  work  on 


AFTERWARDS  23 

hand  ? "  He  could  swear  to  the  words,  and  he 
knew  how  Maud  looked,  although  he  did  not 
see. 

"  Don't  go  away ;  you  promised  that  you  would 
sit  beside  me  when  I  worked — hinder  me?  I 
suppose  you  are  bidding  for  a  kiss;  you  know  the 
sight  of  your  face  inspires  me."  .  .  .  That  was 
ten  years  ago  ...  he  might  have  borne  with 
her  presence  a  little  longer.  .  .  .  She  never 
would  come  again  ...  he  would  have  no  in- 
terruptions of  that  kind.  .  .  . 

Her  gloves,  sixes — what  a  perfect  hand  it  was 
(smoothes  out  the  glove).  His  memory  brings  up 
a  dinner  table.  Mrs.  Chatterby  gives  her  opinion 
on  Meredith's  last  novel,  and  helps  herself  to  salt 
— he  sees  a  disgusting  hand,  with  stumpy  fingers, 
and,  for  impudence,  a  street  arab  of  a  thumb.  A 
vulgar  little  woman  through  and  through,  and  yet 
because  she  picked  up  scraps  from  the  monthlies, 
and  had  the  trick  of  catch-words,  people  paid  her 
court.  And  he  had  sometimes  thought,  but  he 
knew  better  to-day  ...  of  all  things  in  the 
world  a  glove  is  the  surest  symbol.  Mended,  too, 
very  neatly  .  .  .  that  he  might  have  his  han- 
soms. 

It  was  the  last  thing  he  ever  could  have  im- 
agined, and  yet  it  must  be  a  diary — Maud's  diary ! 
Turns  over  the  leaves,  and  catches  that  woman's 
name  against  whom  he  has  suddenly  taken  a  violent 
dislike. 


24  AFTERWARDS 

"  January  25.  Was  at  Mrs.  Chatterby's — how 
strange  one  does  not  say  anything  of  her  husband 
— yet  he  is  the  nicer  of  the  two — and  I  think  it  will 
be  better  not  to  go  again  to  dinner.  One  can  al- 
ways make  some  excuse  that  will  not  be  quite 
untrue. 

'  The  dinner  is  in  honour  of  Mr.  Fynical,  who 
is  leaving  his  College  and  coming  to  live  in  London, 
to  do  literary  work,'  as  Mrs.  Chatterby  has  been 
explaining  for  weeks,  '  and  to  give  tone  to  the 
weeklies.' 

'  The  younger  men  are  quite  devoted  to  him, 
and  we  ought  all  to  be  so  thankful  that  he  is  to 
be  within  reach.  His  touch  reminds  one  of,' — I 
don't  know  the  French  writer,  but  she  does  not 
always  give  the  same  name.  '  We  hope  to  see  a 
great  deal  of  him.  So  delightfully  cynical,  you 
know,  and  hates  the  bourgeoisie.' 

"  I  was  terrified  lest  I  should  sit  next  Mr.  Fynical, 
but  Mrs.  Chatterby  was  merciful,  and  gave  me  Janie 
Godfrey's  father.  Edward  says  that  he  is  a  very 
able  man,  and  will  be  Lord  Chancellor  some  day, 
but  he  is  so  quiet  and  modest,  that  one  feels  quite 
at  home  with  him.  Last  summer  he  was  yachting 
on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  and  he  described 
the  sunset  over  the  Skye  hills ;  and  I  tried  to  give 
him  a  Devonshire  sunrise.  We  both  forgot  where 
we  were,  and  then  Mrs.  Chatterby  asked  me  quite 
loud,  so  that  every  one  looked,  what  I  thought  of 
'  Smudges.' 


AFTERWARDS  25 

"  The  dinner  table  seemed  to  wait  for  my  answer, 
and  I  wish  that  the  book  had  never  come  from  the 
library,  but  I  said  that  I  had  sent  it  back  because  it 
seemed  so  bitter  and  cruel,  and  one  ought  to  read 
books  which  showed  the  noble  side  of  life. 

"  *  You  are  one  of  the  old-fashioned  women,'  she 
replied.  '  You  believe  in  a  novel  for  the  young  per- 
son/ with  a  smile  that  hurt  me,  and  I  told  her  that 
I  had  been  brought  up  on  Sir  Walter  Scott.  I  was 
trying  to  say  something  about  his  purity  and  chival- 
ry, when  I  caught  Mr.  Fynical's  eye,  and  blushed 
red.  If  I  had  only  been  silent, — for  I'm  afraid 
every  one  was  laughing,  and  Edward  did  not  say 
one  word  to  me  all  the  way  home. 

"  February  20.  Another  ordeal,  but  not  so  unfor- 
tunate as  the  last.  The  Browne-Smythes  are  very 
kind  friends,  but  I  do  think  they  are  too  much 
concerned  about  having  clever  people  at  their  house. 
One  evening  Mrs.  Browne-Smythe  said  she  was 
happy  because  nothing  had  been  talked  about  except 
translations  of  Homer.  A  certain  guest  was  so 
miserable  on  that  occasion  that  I  begged  Edward  to 
leave  me  at  home  this  time,  but  he  said  it  would  not 
be  Greek  again.  It  was  science,  however,  and  when 
we  came  in  Mrs.  Browne-Smythe  was  telling  a  very 
learned-looking  person  that  she  simply  lived  for 
fossils.  A  young  lady  beside  me  was  talking  about 
gases  to  a  nervous  man,  who  grew  quite  red,  and 
tried  to  escape  behind  a  table.  I  think  she  was 
wrong  in  her  words,  and  he  was  too  polite  to  correct 


a6  AFTERWARDS 

her.  To  my  horror,  he  was  obliged  to  take  me  in  to 
dinner,  and  there  never  could  have  been  two  people 
more  deserving  of  pity,  for  I  was  terrified  of  his 
knowledge,  and  he  was  afraid  of  my  ignorance. 
We  sat  in  perfect  silence  till  a  fatherly  old  man, 
quite  like  a  farmer,  on  my  left,  began  to  talk  to  me 
so  pleasantly  that  I  described  our  country  people, 
and  was  really  sorry  when  the  ladies  had  to  leave. 
Edward  says  that  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  discov- 
erers in  the  world,  and  has  all  kinds  of  honours. 
We  became  so  friendly  that  he  has  promised  to  take 
tea  with  me,  and  I  think  he  does  not  despise  my 
simplicity.  How  I  long  to  be  cleverer  for  Edward's 
sake,  for  I'm  sure  he  must  be  ashamed  of  me  among 
those  brilliant  women.  I  cannot  blame  him :  I  am 
proud  of  my  husband. 

"  May  15.  I  am  quite  discouraged,  and  have 
resolved  never  to  go  to  any  charitable  committee 
again.  Miss  Tabitha  Primmer  used  shameful 
language  at  the  Magdalene  meeting  to-day,  and 
Mrs.  Wood-Ruler  showed  me  that  I  had  broken 
Law  43  by  giving  a  poor  girl  personal  aid.  It 
seems  presumptuous  on  my  part  to  criticise  such 
able  and  diligent  workers,  but  my  mother  never 
spoke  about  certain  subjects,  and  it  is  agony  for 
me  to  discuss  them.  When  the  vicar  insisted  on 
Sunday  that  thoughtful  women  were  required  for 
Christian  service  to-day,  and  that  we  must  read 
up  all  kinds  of  books  and  know  all  kinds  of  painful 
things,  my  heart  sank.  It  does  not  seem  as  if  there 


AFTERWARDS      .  27 

was  any  place  left  for  simple  folk  like  me.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  better  to  give  up  going  out  alto- 
gether, and  live  for  Edward  and  Bertie.  I  can 
always  do  something  for  them,  and  their  love  will  be 
enough  reward. 

"  Nov.  30.  I  have  not  slept  all  night,  for  I 
made  a  dreadful  mistake  about  a  new  book  that 
every  one  is  reading,  and  Edward  was  so  angry. 
He  did  not  mean  all  he  said,  but  he  never  called  me 
a  fool  before.  Perhaps  he  is  right,  and  it  is  hard 

on  him,  who  is  so  bright.     Sometimes  I  wish " 

And  then  there  was  no  writing,  only  a  tear 
mark.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  he  opened  the  letters  that  had  come 
since  her  death,  and  this  is  what  he  read: 

"  MY  DEAR  TREVOR, — 

"  The  intelligence  of  Mrs.  Trevor's  death  has 
given  me  a  great  shock  of  regret,  and  you  will 
allow  me  to  express  my  sympathy.  Many  men 
not  given  to  enthusiasm  had  told  me  of  her  face 
and  goodness,  and  before  I  had  seen  your  wife  I 
knew  she  was  a  very  perfect  type  of  womanliness. 
The  few  times  I  met  her,  Mrs.  Trevor  cast  a  certain 
spell  over  me — the  nameless  grace  of  the  former 
days — and  I  felt  myself  unworthy  in  her  presence. 
Once  when  a  silly  woman  referred  to  one  of  the 
most  miserable  examples  of  decadent  fiction,  your 
wife  spoke  so  nobly  of  true  literature  that  I  was 


28  ,       AFTERWARDS 

moved  to  thank  her,  but  I  gathered  from  her  face 
that  this  would  not  be  acceptable.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  mask  had  fallen  from  a  beautiful  soul, 
and  one  man  at  least,  in  whom  there  is  too  little 
reverence,  took  the  shoes  from  off  his  feet.  Pardon 
me  if  I  have  exceeded,  and 
"  Believe  me, 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"  BERNARD  FYNICAL." 

The  next  was  from  the  F.R.S. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — 

"  It  is  quite  wrong  for  me,  a  stranger,  to  in- 
trude on  your  grief,  but  I  am  compelled  to  tell 
you  that  an  old  fellow  who  only  spoke  to  your 
wife  once,  had  to  wipe  his  spectacles  over  the 
Times  this  morning.  It  came  about  this  way. 
The  lady  I  had  taken  in  to  dinner  at  the  Browne- 
Smythes  gabbled  about  science  till  I  lost  my  temper, 
and  told  her  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  women 
would  keep  to  their  own  sphere.  Your  wife  was 
on  the  other  side,  and  I  turned  to  her  in  despair. 
She  delighted  me  by  confessing  utter  ignorance  of 
my  subject,  and  then  she  won  my  heart  by  some  of 
the  loveliest  stories  of  peasant  life  in  Devonshire  I 
ever  heard,  so  full  of  insight  and  delicacy.  If  the 
parsons  preached  like  that  I  would  be  in  church  next 
Sunday.  She  put  me  in  mind  of  a  sister  I  lost  long 
ago — who  had  the  same  low,  soft  voice  and  honest, 


AFTERWARDS  29 

trusty  eyes.  When  she  found  I  was  a  lonely  man, 
your  wife  had  pity  on  me,  and  asked  me  to  call  on 
her.  But  I  had  to  go  to  America,  and  only  returned 
tv/o  days  ago.  I  intended  to  wish  her  a  Happy 
New  Year,  but  it's  too  late.  I  cannot  get  you  out  of 
my  mind,  and  I  thought  it  might  comfort  you  to 
know  how  a  fossil  like  myself  was  melted  by  that 
kind  heart. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  sir, 
"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  ARCHIBALD  GILMORE." 

The  third  was  also  from  a  man,  but  this  time  a 
lad  in  rooms  whom  Trevor  had  seen  at  the  house. 

"  DEAR  MR.  TREVOR, — 

"  You  perhaps  know  that  Mrs.  Trevor  allowed 
me  to  spend  an  hour  with  her  of  an  evening,  when 
I  felt  downhearted  or  had  any  trouble,  but  no  one 
will  ever  know  how  much  she  did  for  me.  When  I 
came  up  to  London  my  faith  began  to  go,  and  I 
saw  that  in  a  short  time  I  would  be  an  Agnostic. 
This  did  not  trouble  me  so  much  on  my  own  ac- 
count as  my  mother's,  who  is  dead,  and  made  me 
promise  something  on  her  death-bed.  So  I  bought 
books  and  heard  sermons  on  unbelief  till  I  was  quite 
sick  of  the  whole  business.  Mrs.  Trevor  took  me 
to  hear  your  own  clergyman,  who  did  not  help  me 
one  bit,  for  he  was  too  clever  and  logical ;  but  you 
remember  I  came  home  with  you,  and  after  you 


30  AFTERWARDS 

had  gone  to  your  study  I  told  Mrs.  Trevor  my  dif- 
ficulties, and  she  did  me  more  good  than  all  the 
books.  She  never  argued  nor  preached,  but  when 
I  was  with  her  one  felt  that  religion  was  a  reality, 
and  that  she  knew  more  about  it  than  any  one  I 
had  met  since  I  lost  my  mother.  It  is  a  shame  to 
trouble  you  with  my  story  when  you  are  in  such 
sorrow,  and  no  one  need  tell  you  how  noble  a  woman 
Mrs.  Trevor  was;  but  I  could  not  help  letting  you 
know  that  her  goodness  has  saved  one  young  fellow 
at  least  from  infidelity  and  worse. 

"  You  will  not  mind  my  having  sent  a  cross  to 
put  on  the  coffin;  it  was  all  I  could  do. 
"  Yours  gratefully, 

"  GEORGE  BENSON/' 

There  was  neither  beginning  nor  end  to  the 
fourth  letter,  but  it  was  written  in  a  lady's  hand. 

"  I  am  a  clergyman's  daughter,  who  left  her 
father's  house,  and  went  astray.  I  have  been  in 
the  Inferno,  and  have  seen  what  I  read  in  Dante 
while  I  was  innocent.  One  day  the  old  rectory  rose 
up  before  my  eyes — the  roses  hanging  over  my  bed- 
room window;  the  birds  flying  in  and  out  the  ivy; 
my  father  on  the  lawn,  aged  and  broken  through 
my  sin — and  I  resolved  that  my  womanhood  should 
no  longer  be  dragged  in  the  mire.  My  home  was 
closed  years  ago,  I  had  no  friends,  so  I  went  in  my 
desperation  to  a  certain  Institute,  and  told  my  case 


AFTERWARDS  31 

to  a  matron.  She  was  not  unkindly,  but  the  com- 
mittee were  awful,  without  either  sympathy  or  man- 
ners; and  when  an  unmarried  woman  wished  to 
pry  into  the  details  of  my  degradation — but  I  can't 
tell  a  man  the  shame  they  would  have  put  upon  me 
— my  heart  turned  to  flint,  and  I  left  the  place.  I 
would  have  gone  back  to  my  life  and  perished  had 
it  not  been  for  one  woman  who  followed  me  out, 
and  asked  me  to  go  home  with  her  for  afternoon 
tea.  Had  she  said  one  word  about  my  past,  I  had 
flung  myself  away;  but  because  she  spoke  to  me 
as  if  I  were  still  in  the  rectory,  I  could  not  refuse. 
Mrs.  Trevor  never  once  mentioned  my  sin,  and  she 
saved  my  soul.  I  am  now  a  nurse  in  one  of  the 
hospitals,  and  full  of  peace.  As  long  as  I  live  I 
shall  lay  white  flowers  on  her  grave,  who  surely  was 
the  wisest  and  tenderest  of  women." 

Trevor's  fortitude  was  failing  fast  before  this 
weight  of  unconscious  condemnation,  and  he  was 
only  able  to  read  one  more — an  amazing  produc- 
tion, that  had  cost  the  writer  great  pains. 

"  HONOURED  SIR, — 

"  Bill  says  as  it's  tyking  too  much  on  the  likes 
o'  me  to  be  addressing  you  on  your  missus'  death, 
but  it's  not  her  husband  that  will  despise  a  pore 
working  woman  oo's  lost  her  best  friend.  When 
Bill  'ad  the  rumatiks,  and  couldn't  do  no  work, 
and  Byby  was  a-growing  that  thin  you  could  see 


32  AFTERWARDS 

thro'  'im,  Mrs.  Byles  says  to  me,  '  Mrs.  'Awkes,  you 
goes  to  the  Society  for  the  Horganisation  of  Female 
Toilers.'  Says  I,  '  Wot  is  that  ?  '  and  she  declares, 
*  It's  a  set  of  ladies  oo  wants  to  'elp  women  to  work, 
and  they  'ill  see  you  gets  it.'  So  I  goes,  and  I  saw 
a  set  of  ladies  sitting  at  a  table,  and  they  looks  at 
me ;  and  one  with  spectacles,  and  a  vice  like  an  'and- 
saw,  arsks  me,  '  Wot's  yer  name  ? '  and  ' '  Ow  old 
are  you  ? '  and  '  'Ow  many  children  have 
you  ? '  and  '  Are  your  'abits  temperate  ? '  And 
then  she  says,  '  If  you  pay  a  shilling  we  'ill  put  your 
nyme  down  for  work  has  an  unskilled  worker.'  '  I 
'avn't  got  a  shilling,  and  Byby's  clyin'  for  want  of 
food.'  '  This  ain't  a  poor  'ouse,'  says  she ;  '  this  is  a 
Booro.'  When  I  wos  a-going  down  the  stairs,  a 
lady  comes  after  me.  '  Don't  cry,  Mrs.  'Awkes,' 
for  she  had  picked  up  my  name.  '  I've  some  char- 
ring for  you,  and  we  'ill  go  to  get  something  for 
Byby.'  If  ever  there  wos  a  hangel  in  a  sealskin 
jacket  and  a  plain  little  bonnet,  but  the  true  lady  hall 
hover,  'er  name  was  Mrs.  Trevor.  Bill,  he  looked 
up  from  that  day,  and  wos  on  his  keb  in  a  week, 
and  little  Jim  is  the  biggest  byby  in  the  court.  Mrs. 
Trevor  never  rested  till  I  got  three  hoffices  to  clean, 
to  say  nothing  of  'elping  at  cleanings  and  parties  in 
'ouses.  She  wos  that  kind,  too,  and  free,  when 
she'd  come  hin  with  noos  of  some  hoffice.  '  We're 
horganisin'  you,  Missus  'Awkes,  just  splendid/  with 
the  prettiest  bit  smile.  Bill,  he  used  to  say,  '  'Er 
'usband's  a  proud  man,  for  I  never  saw  the  like  o* 


AFTERWARDS  33 

her  for  a  downright  lady  in  'er  wys  ' — and  'e  knows, 
does  Bill,  being  a  kebman.  When  I  told  'im,  he 
wos  that  bad  that  'e  never  put  a  match  to  'is  pipe  the 
'ole  night.  '  Mariar,'  'e  says  to  me.  '  you  an'  me  'as 
seen  somethink  of  her,  but  you  bet  nobody  knew 
what  a  saint  she  wos  'xcept  'er  'usband.' "  "•  .  .  . 

Trevor  could  read  no  more,  for  it  had  dawned  at 
last  upon  him  that  Christ  had  lived  with  him  for 
more  than  ten  years,  and  his  eyes  had  been  holden. 


THE   MINISTER   OF   ST.   BEDE'S 


THE    MINISTER   OF   ST8   BEDE'S 
I 

It  was  in  the  sixties  that  a  southern  distiller, 
who  had  grown  rich  through  owning  many  public- 
houses  and  much  selling  of  bad  gin,  bought  Glen- 
alder  from  its  poverty-stricken  laird,  and  cleared 
out  the  last  of  the  Macdonalds  from  Lochaber. 
They  arose  and  departed  on  a  fine  spring  day,  when 
the  buds  were  bursting  on  the  trees,  and  the  thorn 
was  white  as  snow,  and  the  birds  were  bringing 
forth  their  young,  and  the  heather  was  beginning 
to  bloom.  Early  in  the  morning,  while  the  grass 
was  yet  wet  with  dew  and  the  sun  had  not  come 
over  the  hill,  Ian  Dhu,  at  the  head  of  the  Glen,  with 
his  brothers  and  their  families,  their  sons  and  their 
sons'  wives,  began  the  procession,  which  flowed  as 
a  stream  of  sorrow  by  the  side  of  the  Alder,  all  the 
day,  gathering  its  rivulets  from  every  forsaken 
home.  When  it  reached  the  poor  little  clachan, 
where  were  the  kirk  and  the  graveyard,  the  emi- 
grants halted,  and  leaving  their  goods  upon  the 
road  went  in  to  worship  God  for  the  last  time  in 

37 


38  THE  MINISTER  OF 

Glenalder  kirk.  A  very  humble  sanctuary,  with 
earthen  floor  and  bare  benches,  and  mightily  de- 
spised by  the  kind  of  southern  who  visited  the  new 
laird's  mansion,  but  beautiful  and  holy  to  those  who 
had  been  baptised  there,  and  married  there,  and  sat 
with  their  heart's  love  there,  and  who,  in  that  place, 
but  after  many  years  and  in  old  age,  had  received 
the  sacrament.  When  they  were  all  in  their  places, 
the  minister  of  the  Glen,  who  would  fain  have  gone 
with  them,  but  was  now  too  old,  ascended  the  pulpit 
and  spake  to  them  from  the  words,  "  He  went  out, 
not  knowing  whither  he  went,"  charging  them  never 
to  forget  their  native  country  nor  their  fathers' 
faith,  beseeching  them  to  trust  in  God  and  do  right- 
eousness, calling  them  all  kinds  of  tender  names  in 
the  warm  Gaelic  speech,  till  they  fell  a-weeping, 
men  and  women  together,  and  the  place  was  full  of 
lamentation.  After  which  Alister  Macdonald,  who 
had  been  through  the  Crimean  War  and  the  Mutiny, 
and  now  was  a  catechist  great  in  opening  mysteries, 
committed  them  to  the  care  of  their  fathers'  God. 
They  would  hardly  leave  the  kirk,  and  the  sun  was 
westering  fast  when  they  came  to  the  elbow  of  the 
hill  where  the  traveller  gets  his  last  look  of  the  Glen. 
There  they  sang,  "  If  I  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem, 
let  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning,"  but  it  was 
Glenalder  they  meant,  a  parcel  of  whose  earth  each 
family  carried  with  them  into  exile ;  and  as  the  pipes 
played  "  Lochaber  no  more "  they  went  away  for 
ever  from  the  land  they  loved  and  which  had  cast 


ST.  BEDE'S  39 

them  forth.  For  an  hour  the  minister  and  Alister, 
with  a  handful  of  old  people,  watched  their  kinsfolk 
till  they  could  see  them  no  more,  and  then  they  went 
back,  no  one  speaking  with  his  neighbour,  to  the 
empty  Glen. 

Besides  the  huge  staring  castle,  with  its  lodges, 
built  by  the  foreigner,  there  are  only  some  twenty 
houses  now  in  all  bonnie  Glenalder.  Tourists  ven- 
turing from  the  main  road  come,  here  and  there, 
across  a  little  heap  of  stones  and  the  remains  of  a 
garden,  with  some  patches  of  bright  green  still 
visible  among  the  heather.  It  is  the  memorial  of 
a  home  where  generation  after  generation  of  well- 
built,  clean-blooded,  God-fearing  Highland  folk 
were  raised.  From  those  humble  cottages  went  up 
morning  and  evening  the  psalm  of  praise  to  God. 
From  them  also  came  hardy  men  to  fill  the  ranks  of 
the  Highland  regiments,  who  had  tasted  none  of  the 
city  vices  and  did  not  know  what  fear  was.  Nor 
were  they  a  fierce  or  morose  people,  for  the  Glen 
sounded  of  a  summer  evening  with  the  sound  of  the 
pipes,  playing  reels  and  strathspeys,  and  in  the  win- 
ter time  the  minister  would  lend  his  barn  for  a 
dance,  saying,  like  the  shrewd  man  he  was,  "  The 
more  dancing  the  less  drinking."  The  very  names 
of  those  desolate  homesteads  and  the  people  that 
lived  therein  are  now  passing  out  of  mind  in  Glen- 
alder,  but  away  in  North- West  Canada  there  is  a 
new  Glenalder,  where  every  name  has  been  repro- 
duced, and  the  cuttings  of  the  brier  roses  bloom 


40  THE  MINISTER  OF 

every  year  in  memory  of  the  land  that  is  "  far  awa." 
And  if  any  man  from  Lochaber,  or  for  that  matter 
from  any  part  of  Scotland,  lights  on  this  place,  it 
will  be  hard  for  him  to  get  away  from  the  warm 
hearts  that  are  there,  and  he  must  depart  a  better 
man  after  hearing  the  kindly  speech  and  seeing  the 
sword  dance  once  more. 

While  the  exiles  halted  on  the  elbow  of  the  hill, 
each  man,  woman  and  child,  according  to  his  size 
and  strength,  carried  a  stone  from  the  hillside  and 
placed  it  on  a  heap  that  grew  before  their  eyes, 
till  it  made  a  rough  pyramid.  This  was  called  the 
Cairn  of  Remembrance,  and  as  often  as  any  one  of 
the  scanty  remnant  left  the  Glen  to  go  south  it  was 
a  custom  that  his  friends  should  accompany  him 
to  this  spot  and  bid  him  farewell,  where  the  past 
pledged  him  to  love  and  faithfulness.  It  was  here 
therefore  that  Henry  Rutherford  parted  from  Mag- 
dalen Macdonald  as  he  went  to  his  last  session  at  the 
Divinity  Hall. 

"  It's  four  years  since  I  came  first  to  Glenalder 
to  teach  the  school  in  the  summer-time,  Magdalen, 
an'  little  I  thought  then  I  would  ever  be  so  near 
the  ministry  or  win  my  sweetheart  in  the  Glen." 

They  were  sitting  on  a  heather  bank  below  the 
cairn,  and  as  he  spoke  his  arm  slipped  round  her 
waist.  He  was  a  typical  Scot,  with  bony  frame, 
broad  shoulders,  strong  face,  deep-set  eyes  of  grey, 
and  the  somewhat  assertive  and  self-sufficient  man- 
ner of  his  race.  She  was  of  the  finest  type  of  High- 


ST.  BEDE'S  41 

land  beauty  with  an  almost  perfect  Grecian  face, 
fair  hair  dashed  with  gold,  eyes  of  the  blue  of  the 
Highland  lochs,  and  a  queenly  carriage  of  head  and 
body.  Deep-bosomed  and  unfettered  by  fashion- 
able city  dress,  with  strong  hand  and  firm  foot,  she 
had  the  swinging  gait  and  proud  independence  of 
the  free  hill  woman. 

"  Had  it  not  been  for  you,"  he  went  on,  "  I  had 
never  persevered;  it  was  your  faith  put  strength 
in  me  and  hope,  and  then  .  .  .  the  help  you 
gave  me;  I  can  never  forget  or  repay  you.  To 
think  that  you  should  have  slaved  that  I  should 
have  books  and — better  food." 

"  Hush,  I  command  you,  for  I  will  not  be  hear- 
ing another  word,  and  if  you  are  saying  more  I  will 
be  very  angry.  It  is  not  good  that  any  man  should 
be  a  minister  and  not  keep  his  word.  And  the  day 
I  gave  you  the  purse  with  the  two  or  three  pieces 
of  gold  you  made  a  promise  never  to  speak  about 
that  day  again.  It  is  not  many  quarrels  we  have 
had,  Henry,  and  some  will  be  good  quarrels,  for 
afterward  we  were  loving  each  other  more  than 
ever.  But  it  was  not  good  when  you  would  lay 
the  bits  of  gold  on  that  very  stone  there — for  I  am 
seeing  them  lie  in  the  hollow — and  say  hot  words  to 
me." 

"  Magdalen,  I  put  the  purse  itself  in  my  breast, 
and  I  loved  you  more  than  ever  for  your  thought 
of  me  and  your  sacrifice,  and  I  wanted  to  kiss  you, 
and  .  .  .  you  ordered  me  to  stand  off,  and  your 


42  THE  MINISTER  OF 

eyes  were  blazing.  Lassie,  you  looked  like  a  ti- 
gress; I  was  feared  of  you." 

"  It  was  not  for  me  to  have  my  gifts  given  back, 
and  if  I  was  driving  home  the  cows  and  milking 
the  white  milk  into  the  pail,  and  churning  the 
sweet  yellow  butter,  all  that  my  love  should  not 
be  wanting  anything,  it  is  not  for  him  to  be  so 
proud  and  mighty." 

"  But  I  did  take  your  kindness  at  last,  and  it 
was  more  than  two  or  three  pounds,  and  so  it  was 
you  that  sent  me  to  Germany.  You  gave  me  my 
learning,  and  some  day,  when  we're  in  our  manse 
together,  I'll  show  you  all  my  books  and  try  .  .  . 
to  repay  your  love." 

"  Henry,  it  will  come  over  me  at  times  in  the 
twilight,  when  strange  sights  are  seen,  that  we  shall 
never  be  together  in  our  house.  Oh,  yes,  I  have 
seen  a  room  with  books  round  the  walls,  and  you 
will  be  sitting  there,  but  I  am  not  seeing  any  Mag- 
dalen. Wait  a  minute,  for  there  will  be  another 
sight,  and  I  am  not  understanding  it.  It  is  not 
this  land,  but  where  it  will  be  I  do  not  know;  but 
I  will  be  there  in  a  beautiful  room,  and  I  will  be 
in  rich  dress,  but  I  am  not  seeing  you. 

"  Do  not  speak."  She  rose  up  and  looked  at 
Rutherford,  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  with  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Have  you  got  the  broken 
piece?"  He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and 
showed  the  jagged  half  of  a  common  penny  hung 
round  his  neck  by  a  blue  ribbon. 


ST.  BEDE'S  43 

"  My  half  will  be  here  " — Magdalen  touched  her 
bosom — "  but  maybe  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  give 
you  it,  and  then  .  .  .  you  will  be  free;  each 
of  us  ...  must  drink  the  cup  that  is  mixed. 
The  visions  will  be  very  clear,  though  I  have  not 
the  second  sight." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  talk,  Mag- 
dalen ?  "  Rutherford's  face  was  pale,  and  his  voice 
vibrated.  "  Are  you  tired  of  me  because  I  am  not 
bonnie  of  face,  but  only  a  plain  Scot,  or  is  it  that 
you  will  not  wait  till  I  win  a  home  for  you,  or  have 
you  seen  another  man — some  glib  English  sports- 
man?" 

"  God  forgive  you,  Henry  Rutherford,  for  saying 
such  words;  is  it  Alister  Macdonald's  granddaugh- 
ter that  would  play  her  lover  false?  Then  let  him 
drive  the  skean  dhu  into  her  heart." 

"  Then  it  is  me  you  suspect,  and  it  is  not  what 
I  have  deserved  at  your  hands,  Magdalen.  A  Scot 
may  seem  cold  and  hard,  but  he  can  be  '  siccar,'  and 
if  I  keep  not  my  troth  with  you,  and  deal  not  by 
you  as  you  have  by  me,  then  may  God  be  my  judge 
and  do  unto  me  as  I  have  done  unto  you." 

They  looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  and  then 
tears  put  out  the  fire  in  hers,  and  she  spoke  with 
a  wail  in  her  voice. 

"  This  is  all  very  foolish  talk,  and  it  is  this  girl 
that  will  be  sorry  after  you  are  gone  and  I  am 
sitting  lonely,  watching  the  sun  go  down.  But 
it  was  a  thought  that  would  be  coming  over  my 


44  THE  MINISTER  OF 

mind,  for  you  will  be  remembering  that  I  am  a 
Highlander;  but  it  is  not  that  you  will  not  be 
faithful  to  me  or  I  to  you,  oh,  no,  and  I  have  put  it 
away,  my  love.  Now  may  God  be  keeping  you  " — 
and  she  took  his  hand — "  and  prospering  you  in  all 
your  work,  till  you  have  your  heart's  desire  in 
knowledge  and  everything  .  .  .  that  would  be 
good  for  you.  This  is  the  prayer  Magdalen  Mac- 
donald  will  be  offering  for  you  every  morning  and 
night  and  all  the  day  when  it  is  winter-time  and  the 
snow  is  heavy  in  Glenalder." 

Then  she  kissed  him  full  upon  the  lips  as  in 
a  sacrament,  and  looking  back  he  saw  her  standing 
against  the  evening  light,  the  perfect  figure  of  a 
woman,  and  she  waved  to  him,  whom  he  was  not 
to  see  again  for  ten  long  years. 


ST.  BEDE'S  45 


II 


"Just  ventured  to  look  in  for  a  single  minute, 
Mr.  Rutherford,  at  the  close  of  this  eventful  day, 
to  say  how  thankful  we  all  are  that  you  were  so 
wonderfully  sustained.  But  you  are  busy — making 
notes  for  next  Sabbath,  perhaps — and  I  must  not 
interrupt  you.  We  must  keep  ourselves  open  to 
the  light;  in  my  small  way  I  find  there  are  times 
when  the  thoughts  just  drop  upon  one.  If  we 
were  more  lifted  above  the  world  they  would  come 
oftener,  far  oftener." 

A  very  "  sleekit "  personage  indeed,  as  they  say 
in  Scotland,  with  a  suave  manner,  a  sickly  voice, 
and  ways  so  childish  that  simple  people  thought 
him  almost  silly ;  but  those  who  happened  to  have 
had  deals  with  him  in  business  formed  quite  another 
opinion,  and  expressed  it  in  language  bordering  on 
the  libellous. 

"  Will  you  be  seated  ?  "  Rutherford  laid  aside 
a  letter  beginning  "  Dearest  Magdalen,"  and  telling 
how  it  had  fared  with  him  on  his  first  Sunday  in 
St.  Bede's,  Glasgow,  W.,  a  kirk  which  contained 
many  rich  people  and  thought  not  a  little  of  itself. 
"  You  have  a  meeting  on  Sunday  evening,  I 
think  you  said.  I  hope  it  was  successful." 


46  THE  MINISTER  OF 

"  There  was  blessing  to-night,  I  am  sure.  I  felt 
the  power  myself.  Lord  Dunderhead  was  passing 
through  Glasgow  and  gave  the  address.  It  was  on 
'  The  Badgers'  Skins'  of  the  Tabernacle,  and  was 
very  helpful.  And  afterward  we  had  a  delightful 
little  '  sing.'  You  know  his  lordship  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  saw  him,"  said  Rutherford  shortly, 
with  a  Scot's  democratic  prejudice  against  religious 
snobbery,  forgetting  that  people  who  will  not  listen 
to  a  reasoned  discourse  from  a  clergyman  will 
crowd  to  the  simplest  utterance  of  a  lord. 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  introduce  you  on  Tues- 
day evening;  you  got  Mrs.  Thompson's  card.  I 
hope  we  may  have  a  profitable  gathering.  Captain 
Footyl,  the  hussar  evangelist,  will  also  be  present 
— a  truly  delightful  and  devoted  young  man." 

Rutherford  had  not  forgotten  the  card — 

MR.  AND  MRS.  THOMPSON 

At  Home 

Tuesday,  May  2nd 

To  meet  Lord  Dunderhead,  who  will  give 

a  Bible  Reading. 
8  to  10.30.  Evening  Dress. 

And  had  sent  it  off  to  his  college  friend,  Carmichael 
of  Drumtochty,  with  a  running  commentary  of  a 
very  piquant  character. 


ST.  BEDE'S  47 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  fear  that  my  work  will  prevent 
me  being  with  you  on  Tuesday ;  it  is  no  light  thing 
for  a  man  to  come  straight  from  college  to  St. 
Bede's  without  even  a  holiday." 

"  So  sorry,  but  by-and-bye  you  will  come  to  one 
of  our  little  meetings.  Mrs.  Thompson  greatly 
enjoyed  your  sermon  to  young  men  this  afternoon ; 
perhaps  just  a  little  too  much  of  works  and  too  little 
of  faith.  Excuse  the  hint — you  know  the  danger  of 
the  day — all  life,  life;  but  that's  a  misleading  test. 
By  the  way,  we  are  all  hoping  that  you  may  get 
settled  in  a  home  as  well  as  in  your  church,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Thompson,  with  pious  waggery,  and 
then  chilling  at  the  want  of  sympathy  on  the  min- 
ister's face ;  "  but  that  is  a  serious  matter,  and  we 
trust  you  may  be  wisely  guided.  A  suitable  help- 
meet is  a  precious  gift." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  not  have  heard,  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, that  I  am  engaged " — and  Rutherford  eyed 
the  elder  keenly, — "  and  to  a  girl  of  whom  any  man 
and  any  congregation  may  be  proud.  I  am  going 
north  next  week  to  see  her  and  to  settle  our  mar- 
riage day." 

"  I  am  so  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so,  and  so 
will  all  the  elders  be,  for  I  must  tell  you  that  a 
rumour  came  to  our  ears  that  gave  us  great  concern ; 
but  I  said  we  must  not  give  heed  to  gossip,  for  what 
Christian  has  not  suffered  in  this  way  at  the  hand 
of  the  world?" 

"  What  was  the  gossip  ?  "  demanded  Rutherford, 


48  THE  MINISTER  OF 

and  there  was  that  in  his  tone  that  brooked  no 
trifling. 

"  You  must  not  take  this  to  heart,  dear  Mr. 
Rutherford;  it  only  shows  how  we  ought  to  set  a 
watch  upon  our  lips.  Well — that  you  were  to  mar- 
ry a  young  woman  in  Glen — Glen " 

"  Alder.     Go  on,"  said  Rutherford. 

"  Yes,  in  Glenalder,  where  we  all  rejoice  to  know 
you  did  so  good  a  work." 

"  I  taught  a  dozen  children  in  the  summer 
months  to  eke  out  my  living.  But  about  the  young 
woman — what  did  they  say  of  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  except  that  she  was,  perhaps, 
hardly  in  that  position  of  society  that  a  clergy- 
man's wife  ought  to  be,  especially  one  in  the  west 
end  of  Glasgow.  But  do  not  let  us  say  anything 
more  of  the  matter;  it  just  shows  how  the  great 
enemy  is  ever  trying  to  create  dissension  and  injure 
the  work." 

"  What  you  have  heard  is  perfectly  true,  except 
that  absurd  reference  to  Glasgow,  and  I  have  the 
honour  to  inform  you,  as  I  intend  to  inform  the 
elders  on  my  return  next  week,  that  I  hope  to 
be  married  in  a  month  or  two  to  Magdalen  Mac- 
donald,  who  was  brought  up  by  her  grandfather, 
Alister  Macdonald  of  the  Black  Watch,  and  who 
herself  has  a  little  croft  in  Glenalder  " — and  Ruther- 
ford challenged  Mr.  Thompson,  expounder  of  scrip- 
ture and  speculator  in  iron,  to  come  on  and  do  his 
worst. 


ST.  BEDE'S  49 

"  Will  you  allow  me,  my  dear  young  friend,  to 
say  that  there  is  no  necessity  for  this  .  .  . 
heat,  and  to  speak  with  you  as  one  who  has  your 
.  .  .  best  interests  at  heart,  and  those  of  St. 
Bede's.  I  feel  it  to  be  a  special  providence  that 
I  should  have  called  this  evening." 

"Well?"  insisted  Rutherford. 

"  What  I  feel,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will 
agree  with  me,  is  that  Christians  must  not  set 
themselves  against  the  arrangements  of  Providence, 
and  you  see  we  are  set  in  classes  for  a  wise  purpose. 
We  are  all  equal  before  God,  neither  '  bond  nor 
free,'  as  it  runs,  but  it  is  expedient  that  the  minister 
of  St.  Bede's  should  marry  in  his  own  position. 
There  are  many  sacrifices  we  must  make  for  our 
work's  sake;  and,  oh,  Mr.  Rutherford,  what  care 
we  have  to  take  lest  we  cast  a  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  others !  It  was  only  last  week  that  a 
valued  fellow-worker  begged  me  to  invite  a  young 
lady  to  my  little  drawing-room  meeting  who  was 
concerned  about  spiritual  things.  '  Nothing  would 
give  me  greater  pleasure,'  I  said,  '  if  it  would  help 
her;  but  it  is  quite  impossible,  and  you  would  not 
have  asked  me  had  you  known  her  history.  Her 
father  was  a  shopkeeper,  and  in  the  present  divided 
state  of  society  I  dare  not  introduce  her  among  the 
others,  all  wholesale  without  exception.'  You  will 
not  misunderstand  me,  Mr.  Rutherford  ?  " 

"  You  have  stated  the  case  admirably,  Mr. 
Thompson,  and  from  your  standpoint  in  religion, 


50  THE  MINISTER  OF 

I  think,  conclusively.  Perhaps  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  might  .  .  .  ;  but  we  won't  go  into 
that.  Before  deciding,  however,  what  is  my  duty, 
always  with  your  aid,  you  might  like  to  see  the 
face  of  my  betrothed.  There,  in  that  light." 

"  Really  quite  beautiful,  and  I  can  easily  under- 
stand; we  were  all  young  once  and  .  .  .  im- 
pressionable. As  good-looking  as  any  woman  in 
St.  Bede's?  Excuse  me,  that  is  hardly  a  question 
to  discuss.  Grace  does  not  go  with  looks.  We 
all  know  that  beauty  is  deceitful.  Knows  the 
poets  better  than  you  do,  I  dare  say.  There  is 
a  nurse  of  my  sister's,  a  cabman's  daughter — I 
beg  your  pardon  for  dropping  the  photograph ; 
you  startled  me.  But  you  will  excuse  me  saying 
that  it  is  not  this  kind  of  knowledge  .  .  .  well, 
culture,  which  fits  a  woman  to  be  a  minister's  wife. 
Addressing  a  mothers'  meeting  is  far  more  im- 
portant than  reading  poetry.  Highland  manners 
more  graceful  than  Glasgow?  That  is  a  very  ex- 
traordinary comparison,  and  .  .  .  can  do  no 
good.  Really  no  one  can  sympathise  with  you  more 
than  I  do,  but  I  am  quite  clear  as  to  your  duty  as 
a  minister  of  the  Gospel." 

"  You  mean  " — and  Rutherford  spoke  with  much 
calmness — "  that  I  ought  to  break  our  troth.  It 
is  not  a  light  thing  to  do,  sir,  and  has  exposed  both 
men  and  women  to  severe  .  .  .  criticism." 

"  Certainly,  if  the  matter  be  mismanaged,  but 
I  think,  although  it's  not  for  me  to  boast,  that 


ST.  BEDE'S  51 

it  could  be  arranged.  Now,  there  was  Dr.  Drum- 
mer— this  is  quite  between  ourselves — he  involved 
himself  with  a  teacher  of  quite  humble  rank  during 
his  student  days,  and  it  was  pointed  out  to  him 
very  faithfully  by  his  elders  that  such  a  union 
would  injure  his  prospects.  He  made  it  a  matter 
of  prayer,  and  he  wrote  a  beautiful  letter  to  her, 
and  she  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light,  and  you 
know  what  a  ministry  his  has  been.  His  present 
wife  has  been  a  real  helpmeet ;  her  means  are  large 
and  are  all  consecrated." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  what  became  of  the 
teacher  ?  I  only  ask  for  curiosity,  for  I  know  what 
has  become  of  Dr.  Drummer." 

"  She  went  to  England  and  caught  some  fever, 
or  maybe  it  was  consumption,  but  at  any  rate  she 
died  just  before  the  Doctor  married.  It  was 
all  ordered  for  the  best,  so  that  there  were  no 
complications." 

"  Exactly ;  that  is  evident,  and  my  way  seems 
now  much  clearer.  There  is  just  one  question 
more  I  should  like  to  ask.  If  you  can  answer 
it  I  shall  have  no  hesitation  about  my  course. 
Suppose  a  woman  loved  a  man  and  believed  in 
him,  and  encouraged  him  through  his  hard  college 
days,  and  they  both  were  looking  forward  with 
one  heart  to  their  wedding  day,  and  then  he — 
did  not  marry  her — what  would  honourable  men 
think  of  him,  and  what  effect  would  this  deed  of 
— prudence  have  on  his  ministry  of  the  Gospel  ?  " 


"  My  dear  friend,  if  it  were  known  that  he  had 
taken  this  step  simply  and  solely  for  the  good  of 
the  cause  he  had  at  heart  and  after  prayerful  con- 
sideration, there  is  no  earnest  man — and  we  need 
not  care  for  the  world — who  would  not  appreciate 
his  sacrifice." 

"  I  do  not  believe  one  word  you  say."  Mr. 
Thompson  smiled  feebly,  and  began  to  retire  to  the 
door  at  the  look  in  Rutherford's  eye.  "  But  wheth- 
er you  be  right  or  wrong  about  the  world  in  which 
you  move,  I  do  not  know.  In  my  judgment,  the 
man  who  acted  as  you  describe  would  have  only 
one  rival  in  history,  and  that  would  be  Judas 
Iscariot." 


ST.  BEDE'S  53 


III 


Southern  travellers  wandering  over  Scotland  in 
their  simplicity  have  a  dim  perception  that  the 
Scot  and  the  Celt  are  not  of  one  kind,  and,  as  all 
racial  characteristics  go  back  to  the  land,  they  might 
be  helped  by  considering  the  unlikeness  between 
a  holding  in  Fife  and  a  croft  in  a  western  glen. 
The  lowland  farm  stands  amid  its  neighbours  along 
the  highway,  with  square  fields,  trim  fences,  slated 
houses,  cultivated  after  the  most  scientific  method, 
and  to  the  last  inch  a  very  type  of  a  shrewd, 
thrifty,  utilitarian  people.  The  Highland  farm  is 
half  a  dozen  patches  of  as  many  shapes  scattered 
along  the  hillside,  wherever  there  are  fewest  stones 
and  deepest  soil  and  no  bog,  and  those  the  crofter 
tills  as  best  he  can — sometimes  getting  a  harvest 
and  sometimes  seeing  the  first  snow  cover  his  oats 
in  the  sheaf,  sometimes  building  a  rude  dyke  to  keep 
off  the  big,  brown,  hairy  cattle  that  come  down  to 
have  a  taste  of  the  sweet  green  corn,  but  often  find- 
ing it  best  to  let  his  barefooted  children  be  a  fence 
by  day,  and  at  certain  seasons  to  sit  up  all  night 
himself  to  guard  his  scanty  harvest  from  the  forays 
of  the  red  deer.  Somewhere  among  the  patches  he 


54  THE  MINISTER  OF 

builds  his  low-roofed  house,  and  thatches  it  over 
with  straw,  on  which,  by-and-bye,  grass  with  heath- 
er and  wild  flowers  begin  to  grow,  till  it  is  not  easy 
to  tell  his  home  from  the  hill.  His  farm  is  but  a 
group  of  tiny  islands  amid  a  sea  of  heather  that  is 
ever  threatening  to  overwhelm  them  with  purple 
spray.  Any  one  can  understand  that  this  man  will 
be  unpractical,  dreamy,  enthmsiastic,  the  child  of 
the  past,  the  hero  of  hopeless  causes,  the  seer  of 
visions. 

Magdalen  had  milked  her  cows  at  midday  and 
sent  them  forth  to  pasture,  and  now  was  sitting 
before  her  cottage  among  wallflower  and  spring 
lilies,  reading  for  the  third  time  the  conclusion  of 
Rutherford's  last  letter: — 

"  Here  I  was  interrupted  by  the  coming  of  an 
elder,  a  mighty  man  in  the  religious  world,  and 
very  powerful  in  St.  Bede's.  He  tells  me  that 
something  has  been  heard  of  our  engagement,  and 
I  have  taken  counsel  with  him  with  the  result  that 
it  seems  best  we  should  be  married  without  delay. 
After  loving  for  four  years  and  there  being  nothing 
to  hinder,  why  should  you  be  lonely  on  your  croft 
in  Glenalder  and  I  in  my  rooms  at  Glasgow?  An- 
swer me  that,  '  calf  of  my  heart '  ( I  do  not  attempt 
the  Gaelic).  But  you  cannot.  You  will  only  kiss 
the  letter,  since  I  am  not  at  your  side,  and  next 
week  I  shall  come  north,  and  you  will  fix  the  day. 

"  My  head  is  full  of  plans,  and  I  do  not  think 


ST.  BEDE'S  55 

that  joy  will  let  me  sleep  to-night  for  thinking 
of  you  and  all  that  we  shall  do  together.  We'll 
be  married  early  in  the  morning  in  the  old  kirk 
of  Glenalder,  as  soon  as  the  sun  has  filled  the  Glen 
and  Nature  has  just  awaked  from  sleep.  Mona 
Macdonald  will  be  your  bridesmaid,  I  know,  and 
she  will  wear  white  roses  that  shall  not  be  whiter 
than  her  teeth.  Yes,  I  have  learned  to  notice  all 
beautiful  things  since  I  knew  you,  Magdalen.  My 
best  man  will  be  Carmichael  of  Drumtochty,  who  is 
of  Highland  blood  himself  and  a  goodly  man  to 
look  upon,  and  he  has  his  own  love-story.  All  the 
Glen  will  come  to  our  wedding,  and  will  grudge 
that  a  Lowland  Scot  has  spoiled  the  Glen  of  the 
Flower  of  Dalnabreck — yes,  I  know  what  they  call 
you.  And  we  shall  have  our  breakfast  in  the  manse, 
for  the  minister  has  pledged  us  to  that,  and  it  is  he 
and  John  Carmichael  that  will  be  making  the  won- 
derful speeches!  (You  see  how  I've  learned  the 
style.)  But  you  and  I  will  leave  them  and  catch 
the  steamer,  and  then  all  the  long  June  day  we  shall 
sit  on  the  deck  together  and  see  distant  Skye,  and 
the  little  isles,  and  pass  Mull  and  Ardnamurchan, 
and  sail  through  Oban  Bay  and  down  Loch  Fyne, 
and  thread  our  way  by  Tighnabruaich,  and  come 
into  the  Firth  of  Clyde  when  the  sun  is  going  down 
away  behind  Ben  Alder.  Won't  it  be  a  glorious 
marriage  day,  among  lochs  and  hills  and  islands  the 
like  of  which  travellers  say  cannot  be  found  in  all 
the  world? 


56  THE  MINISTER  OF 

"  Then  I  want  to  take  you  to  Germany,  and  to 
show  you  the  old  University  town  where  I  lived 
one  summer,  and  we  will  have  one  good  day  there, 
too,  my  bride  and  I.  Early  in  the  morning  we 
shall  stand  in  the  market-place,  where  the  women 
are  washing  clothes  at  the  fountain  and  the  peas- 
ants are  selling  butter  and  fruit,  and  the  high- 
gabled  houses  rise  on  three  sides,  and  the  old  Rath- 
haus,  on  whose  roof  the  storks  build  their  nests, 
makes  the  fourth.  We'll  go  to  my  rooms  near  the 
Kirche,  where  I  used  to  write  a  letter  to  you  every 
day,  and  here  is  what  old  Frau  Hepzacker  will  say, 
'  Mein  Gott,  der  Schottlander  und  ein  wunder- 
schones  miidchen  '  (you  will  English  and  Gaelic  this 
for  yourself),  and  we  will  drink  a  glass  of  (fear- 
fully sour)  wine  with  her,  and  go  out  with  her 
blessing  echoing  down  the  street.  Then  we  will 
watch  the  rafts  coming  down  the  Neckar  from  the 
Black  Eorest,  and  walk  among  the  trees  in  the 
Vorstadt,  where  I  lay  and  dreamed  of  you  far  away 
in  Glenalder.  And  we  will  go  to  the  University 
where  you  sent  me  .  .  .  but  that  is  never  to  be 
mentioned  again ;  and  the  students  in  their  wonder- 
ful dress  will  come  and  go — red  hats  and  blue,  be- 
sides the  white,  black  and  gold  I  used  to  wear. 
And  in  the  evening  we  will  drive  through  the  vines 
and  fruit-trees  to  Bebenhausen,  the  king's  hunting- 
seat.  And  those  will  only  be  two  days  out  of  our 
honeymoon,  Magdalen.  It  seems  too  good  to  be 
my  lot  that  I  should  be  minister  of  Christ's  evan- 


ST.  BEDE'S  57 

gel — of  which  surely  I  am  not  worthy — and  that 
you  should  be  my  bride,  of  which  I  am  as  unworthy. 
Next  Monday  I  shall  leave  this  smoky  town  and 
meet  you  at  the  Cairn  of  Remembrance  on  Tuesday 
morning. 

"  Meanwhile  and  ever  I  am  your  faithful  lover, 
"  HENRY  RUTHERFORD." 

Magdalen  kissed  the  name  passionately  and 
thrust  the  letter  into  her  bosom.  Then  she  went 
to  the  edge  of  the  heather  and  looked  along  the 
Glen,  where  she  had  been  born  and  lived  her  twenty- 
two  years  in  peace,  from  which  she  was  so  soon  to 
go  out  on  the  most  adventurous  journey  of  life. 
When  a  pure-bred  Highland  woman  loves,  it  is  once 
and  for  ever,  and  earth  has  no  more  faithful  wife, 
or  mother,  or  daughter.  And  Magdalen  loved 
Rutherford  with  all  her  heart.  But  it  is  not  given 
unto  her  blood  to  taste  unmixed  joy,  and  now  she 
was  haunted  with  a  sense  of  calamity.  The  past 
flung  its  shadow  over  her,  and  the  people  that  were 
gone  came  back  to  their  deserted  homes.  She  heard 
the  far-off  bleating  of  the  sheep  and  the  wild  cry 
of  the  curlew ;  she  crooned  to  herself  a  Gaelic  song, 
and  was  so  carried  away  that  she  did  not  see  the 
stranger  come  along  the  track  through  the  heather 
till  he  spoke. 

"  Good  evening ;  may  I  ask  whether  this  is  eh 
.  .  .  Dalnabreck?  and  have  I  the  pleasure  of 
addressing  Miss  Macdonald  ?  " 


58  THE  MINISTER  OF 

"  Yes,  I  am  Magdalen  Macdonald  " — and  as  she 
faced  him  in  her  beauty  the  visitor  was  much 
abashed.  "  Would  you  be  wanting  to  see  me,  sir?  " 

"  My  name  is  Thompson,  and  I  have  the  privi- 
lege of  being  an  elder  in  St.  Bede's,  Glasgow,  and 
as  I  happened  to  be  passing  through  Glenalder — • 
just  a  few  days'  rest  after  the  winter's  work — how 
the  soul  wears  the  body! — I  thought  that  it  would 
be  ...  a  pleasure  to  ...  pay  my  re- 
spects to  one  of  whom  I  have  .  .  .  heard  from 
our  dear  pastor.  Perhaps,  however," — this  with 
some  anxiety — "  Mr.  Rutherford  may  have  men- 
tioned my  humble  name." 

"  There  are  so  many  good  people  in  St.  Bede's, 
and  they  are  all  so  kind  to  him  that  .  .  . 
Henry " — the  flush  at  her  lover's  name  lent  the 
last  attraction  to  her  face  and  almost  overcame 
the  astute  iron  merchant — "  will  not  be  able  to  tell 
me  all  their  names.  But  I  will  be  knowing  them 
all  for  myself  soon,  and  then  I  will  be  going  to 
thank  every  person  for  all  that  has  been  done  to 
.  .  .  him.  It  is  very  gracious  of  you  to  be 
visiting  a  poor  Highland  girl,  and  the  road  to 
Dalnabreck  is  very  steep;  you  will  come  in  and 
rest  in  my  house,  and  I  will  bring  you  milk  to 
drink.  You  must  be  taking  care  of  the  door,  for 
it  is  low,  and  the  windows  are  small  because  of 
the  winter  storms ;  but  there  is  room  inside  and 
a  heart  welcome  for  our  friends  in  our  little  homes. 
When  I  am  bringing  the  milk  maybe  you  will  be 


ST.  BEDE'S  59 

looking  at  the  medals  on  the  wall.  They  are  my 
grandfather's,  who  was  a  brave  man  and  fought 
well  in  his  day,  and  two  will  be  my  father's,  who 
was  killed  very  young  and  had  not  time  to  get 
more  honour." 

The  elder  made  a  hurried  survey  of  the  room, 
with  its  bits  of  black  oak  and  the  arms  on  the 
wall,  and  the  deer-skins  on  the  floor,  and  book- 
shelves hanging  on  the  wall,  and  wild  flowers  every- 
where; and,  being  an  operator  so  keen  that  he  was 
said  to  know  a  market  by  scent,  he  changed  his 
plan. 

"  I  took  a  hundred  pounds  with  me,"  he  ex- 
plained afterward  to  a  friend  of  like  spirit,  "  for 
a  promising  ministry  was  not  to  be  hindered  for 
a  few  pounds !  I  intended  to  begin  with  fifty  and 
expected  to  bring  back  twenty-five,  but  I  saw  that 
it  would  have  been  inexpedient  to  offer  money 
to  the  young  woman.  There  was  no  flavour  of 
spirituality  at  all  about  her,  and  she  was  filled 
with  pride  about  war  and  such-like  vanities.  Her 
manner  might  be  called  taking  in  worldly  circles, 
but  it  was  not  exactly  .  .  .  gentle,  and  she 
might  have  .  .  .  been  rude,  quite  unpleasant, 
if  I  had  tried  to  buy  her  ...  I  mean  arrange 
on  a  pecuniary  basis.  Ah,  Juitler,  how  much  we 
need  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  in  this  life !  " 

"  What  a  position  you  are  to  occupy,  my  dear 
friend,"  began  the  simple  man,  seated  before  the 
most  perfect  of  meals — rich  milk  of  cows,  fed  on 


60  THE  MINISTER  OF 

meadow  grass,  yellow  butter  and  white  oat  cakes 
set  among  flowers.  "  I  doubt  not  that  you  are 
often  weighed  down  by  a  sense  of  responsibility, 
and  are  almost  afraid  of  the  work  before  you. 
After  some  slight  experience  in  such  matters  I  am 
convinced  that  the  position  of  a  minister's  wife  is 
the  most  ...  I  may  say  critical  in  Christian 
service." 

"  You  will  be  meaning  that  she  must  be  taking 
great  care  of  her  man,  and  making  a  beautiful 
home  for  him,  and  keeping  away  foolish  people, 
and  standing  by  him  when  his  back  will  be  at  the 
wall.  Oh,  yes,  it  is  a  minister  that  needs  to  be 
loved  very  much,  or  else  he  will  become  stupid  and 
say  bitter  words,  and  no  one  will  be  wanting  to 
hear  him  " — and  Magdalen  looked  across  the  table 
with  joyful  confidence. 

"  Far  more  than  that,  I'm  afraid  " — and  Mr. 
Thompson's  face  was  full  of  pity.  "  I  was  thinking 
of  the  public  work  that  falls  to  a  minister's  wife 
in  such  a  church  as  St.  Bede's,  which  is  trying  and 
needs  much  grace.  The  receiving  of  ladies  alone 
— Providence  has  been  very  good  to  our  people, 
twelve  carriages  some  days  at  the  church  door — 
requires  much  experience  and  wisdom. 

"  Mrs.  Drummer,  who  has  been  much  used 
among  the  better  classes,  has  often  told  me  that 
she  considered  tact  in  society  one  of  her  most 
precious  talents,  and  I  know  that  it  was  largely 
owing  to  her  social  gifts,  sanctified,  of  course,  that 


ST.  BEDE'S  6 1 

the  Doctor  became  such  a  power.  Ah,  yes," — and 
Mr.  Thompson  fell  into  a  soliloquy — "  it  is  the  wife 
that  makes  or  mars  the  minister." 

"  Glasgow  then  will  not  be  like  Glenalder " — 
and  Magdalen's  face  was  much  troubled — "  for  if 
any  woman  here  will  tell  the  truth  and  speak  good 
words  of  people,  and  help  when  the  little  children 
are  sick,  and  have  an  open  door  for  the  stranger, 
then  we  will  all  be  loving  her,  and  she  will  not  hurt 
her  man  in  anything." 

"  Be  thankful  that  you  do  not  live  in  a  city,  Miss 
Macdonald,  for  the  world  has  much  more  power 
there;  they  that  come  to  work  are  in  the  thick  of 
the  battle  and  need  great  experience,  but  you  will 
learn  in  time  and  maybe  you  could  live  .  .  . 
quietly  for  a  year  or  two  .  .  .  you  will  excuse 
me  speaking  like  this  .  .  .  you  see  it  is  for  our 
beloved  minister  I  am  anxious." 

Magdalen's  face  had  grown  white,  and  she  once 
or  twice  took  a  long,  sad  breath. 

"  As  regards  the  public  work  expected  of  a  min- 
ister's wife — but  I  am  wearying  you,  I  fear,  and 
it  is  time  to  return  to  the  inn.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  I  have  enjoyed  this  delicious 
milk  .  .  ." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  the  .  .  .  the  other 
things  ...  I  want  to  know  all." 

"  Oh,  it  was  the  meetings  I  was  thinking  of, 
for  of  course,  as  I  am  sure  you  know,  our  minis- 
ter's wife  is  the  head  of  the  mothers'  meeting. 


62  THE  MINISTER  OF 

Mrs.  Drummer's  addresses  there  were  excellent, 
and  her  liberality  in  giving  treats — gospel  treats, 
I  mean,  with  tea — was  eh,  in  fact,  queenly.  And 
then  she  had  a  Bible-class  for  young  ladies  that  was 
mentioned  in  the  religious  papers." 

Magdalen  had  now  risen  and  was  visibly 
trembling. 

"  There  is  a  question  I  would  like  to  ask, 
Mister  .  .  ." 

"  Thompson — Jabez  Thompson." 

"  Mister  Thompson — and  you  will  be  doing  a 
great  kindness  to  a  girl  that  has  never  been  out- 
side Glenalder,  and  ...  is  not  wanting  to 
be  a  sorrow  to  the  man  she  loves,  if  you  will  answer 
it.  Do  you  know  any  minister  like  .  .  .  your 
minister  who  married  a  country  girl  and  .  .  . 
what  happened  ?  " 

"  Really,  my  dear  friend,  I  ...  well,  if  you 
insist,  our  neighbour  in  St.  Thomas's — a  very  fine 
young  fellow — did,  and  he  was  a  little  hindered 
at  first,  but  I  am  sure,  in  course  of  time,  if  he 
had  waited — yes,  he  left,  and  I  hear  is  in  the  Colo- 
nies, and  doing  an  excellent  work  among  the  squat- 
ters, or  was  it  the  Chinese?  .  .  .  No,  no,  this 
is  not  good-bye.  I  only  hope  I  have  not  discour- 
aged you.  .  .  .  What  a  lovely  glen !  How  can 
we  ever  make  up  to  you  for  this  heather  ?  " 

For  three  days  no  one  saw  Magdalen,  but  a 
shepherd  attending  to  his  lambs  noticed  that  a 
lamp  burned  every  night  in  the  cottage  at  Dalna- 


ST.  BEDE'S  63 

breck.  When  Rutherford  arrived  at  the  cairn  on 
Tuesday  he  looked  in  vain  for  Magdalen.  Old 
Elspeth,  Magdalen's  foster-mother,  was  waiting 
for  him  and  placed  a  letter  in  his  hands,  which 
he  read  in  that  very  place  where  he  had  parted  from 
his  betrothed. 

"  DEAREST  OF  MY  HEART, — 

"  It  is  with  the  tears  of  my  soul  that  I  am 
writing  this  letter,  and  it  is  with  cruel  sorrow  you 
will  be  reading  it,  for  I  must  tell  you  that  our 
troth  is  broken,  and  that  Magdalen  cannot  be  your 
wife.  Do  not  be  thinking  this  day  or  any  day  that 
she  is  not  loving  you,  for  never  have  you  been  so 
dear  to  me  or  been  in  my  eyes  so  strong  and  brave 
arid  wise  and  good,  and  do  not  be  thinking  that  I  do 
not  trust  you,  for  it  is  this  girl  knows  that  you 
would  be  true  to  me  although  all  the  world  turned 
against  me. 

"  Believe  me,  my  beloved,  it  is  because  I  love 
you  so  much  that  I  am  setting  you  free  that  you 
may  not  be  put  to  shame  because  you  have  married 
a  Highland  girl,  who  has  nothing  but  two  cows, 
and  who  does  not  know  the  ways  of  cities,  and  who 
cannot  speak  in  public  places,  and  who  can  do  noth- 
ing except  love. 

"  If  it  had  been  possible  I  would  have  been 
waiting  for  you  at  the  Cairn  of  Remembrance,  and 
it  is  my  eyes  that  ache  to  see  you  once  more,  but  then 
I  would  be  weak  and  could  not  leave  you,  as  is  best 
for  you. 


64  THE  MINISTER  OF 

"  You  will  not  be  seeking  after  me,  for  I  am  go- 
ing far  away,  and  nobody  can  tell  you  where,  and 
this  is  also  best  for  you  and  me.  But  I  will  be 
hearing  about  you,  and  will  be  knowing  all  you 
do,  and  there  will  be  none  so  proud  of  you  as  your 
first  love. 

"  And,  Henry,  if  you  meet  a  good  woman  and 
she  loves  you,  then  you  must  not  think  that  I  will 
be  angry  when  you  marry  her,  for  this  would  be 
selfish  and  not  right.  I  am  going  away  for  your 
sake,  and  I  will  be  praying  that  the  sun  be  ever 
shining  on  you  and  that  you  become  a  great  man 
in  the  land.  One  thing  only  I  ask — that  in  those 
days  you  sometimes  give  a  thought  to  Glenalder 
and  your  faithful  friend, 

"  MAGDALEN  MACDONALD." 


ST.  BEDE'S  65 


IV 


"  It  was  a  first-rate  match,  and  we  were  fairly 
beaten;  it  was  their  forward  turned  the  scale.  I 
had  two  hacks  from  him  myself  " — the  captain  of 
the  Glasgow  Football  Club  nursed  the  tender  spots. 
"  It's  a  mercy  to-morrow's  Sunday  and  one  can  lie 
in  bed." 

"  Olive  oil  is  not  bad  for  rubbing.  You  deserve 
the  rest,  old  man.  It  was  a  stiff  fight.  By-the- 
way,  I  saw  Rutherford  of  St.  Bede's  there.  He 
cheered  like  a  good  'un  when  you  got  that  goal. 
He's  the  best  parson  going  in  Glasgow." 

"  Can't  bear  the  tribe  nor  their  ways,  Charlie, 
they're  such  hypocrites,  always  preaching  against 
the  world  and  that  kind  of  thing  and  feathering 
their  own  nests  at  every  turn.  Do  you  know  I 
calculated  that  six  of  them  in  Glasgow  alone  have 
netted  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  by 
successful  marriages.  That's  what  sickens  a  fellow 
at  religion." 

"  Well,  you  can't  say  that  against  Rutherford, 
Jack,  for  he's  not  married,  and  works  like  a  coal- 
heaver.  He's  the  straightest  man  I've  come  across 


66  THE  MINISTER  OF 

either  in  the  pulpit  or  out  of  it,  besides  being  a  rip- 
ping preacher.  Suppose  you  look  me  up  to-morrow 
about  six,  and  we'll  hear  what  he's  got  to  say." 

His  friends  said  that  Rutherford  was  only  thirty- 
four  years  of  age,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  were  near 
fifty,  for  his  hair  had  begun  to  turn  grey,  and  he 
carried  the  traces  of  twenty  years'  work  upon  his 
face.  No  one  would  have  asked  whether  he  was 
handsome,  for  he  had  about  him  an  air  of  sincerity 
and  humanity  that  at  once  won  your  confidence. 
His  subject  that  evening  was  the  "  Sanctifying 
power  of  love,"  and,  as  his  passion  gradually  in- 
creased to  white  heat,  he  had  the  men  before  him  at 
his  mercy.  Women  of  the  world  complained  that 
he  was  hard  and  unsympathetic;  some  elderly  men 
considered  his  statements  unguarded  and  even  un- 
sound; but  men  below  thirty  heard  him  gladly. 
This  evening  he  was  stirred  for  some  reason  to  the 
depths  of  his  being,  and  was  irresistible.  When  he 
enlarged  on  the  love  of  a  mother,  and  charged  every 
son  present  to  repay  it  by  his  life  and  loyalty,  a 
hundred  men  glared  fiercely  at  the  roof,  and  half  of 
them  resolved  to  write  home  that  very  night.  As 
he  thundered  against  lust,  the  foul  counterfeit  of 
love,  men's  faces  whitened,  and  twice  there  was  a 
distinct  murmur  of  applause.  His  great  passage, 
however,  came  at  the  close,  and  concerned  the  love 
of  a  man  for  a  maid :  "  If  it  be  given  to  any  man  in 
his  fresh  youth  to  love  a  noble  woman  with  all  his 
heart,  then  in  that  devotion  he  shall  find  an  unfail- 


ST.  BEDE'S  67 

ing  inspiration  of  holy  thoughts  and  high  endeav- 
ours, a  strong  protection  against  impure  and  selfish 
temptations,  a  secret  comfort  amid  the  contradic- 
tions and  adversities  of  life.  Let  him  give  this  pas- 
sion full  play  in  his  life  and  it  will  make  a  man  of 
him  and  a  good  soldier  in  the  great  battle.  And  if 
it  so  be  that  this  woman  pass  from  his  sight 
or  be  beyond  his  reach,  yet  in  this  love  itself  shall 
he  find  his  exceeding  reward."  As  he  spoke  in  a 
low,  sweet,  intense  voice,  those  in  the  gallery  saw 
the  preacher's  left  hand  tighten  on  the  side  of  the 
pulpit  till  the  bones  and  sinews  could  be  counted, 
but  with  his  right  hand  he  seemed  to  hold  some- 
thing that  lay  on  his  breast. 

"  Look  here,  Charlie  " — as  the  two  men  stood 
in  a  transept  till  the  crowd  passed  down  the  main 
aisle — "  if  you  don't  mind  I  would  like  ...  to 
shake  hands  with  the  preacher.  When  a  man  takes 
his  coat  off  and  does  a  big  thing  like  that  he  ought 
to  know  that  he  has  .  .  .  helped  a  fellow." 

"  I'll  go  in  too,  Jack,  for  he's  straightened  me, 
and  not  for  the  first  time.  You  know  how  I  used 
to  live  .  .  .  well,  that  is  over,  and  it  was 
Rutherford  saved  me." 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  badly  hit  some  time. 
Do  you  know  his  record  ?  " 

"  There's  some  story  about  his  being  in  love  with 
a  poor  girl,  and  being  determined  to  marry  her, 
but  *  Iron  Warrants '  got  round  her  and  persuaded 
her  that  it  would  be  Rutherford's  ruin;  so  she 


68  THE  MINISTER  OF 

disappeared,  and  they  say  Rutherford  is  waiting 
for  her  to  this  day.  But  I  don't  give  it  as  a 
fact." 

"  You  may  be  sure  every  word  of  it  is  true,  old 
man;  it's  like  one  of  Thompson's  tricks,  for  I  was 
in  his  office  once,  and  it's  just  what  that  man  in  the 
pulpit  would  do;  poor  chap,  he's  served  his  time 
.  .  .  I  say,  though,  suppose  that  girl  turns  up 
some  day." 

They  were  near  the  vestry  door  and  arranging 
their  order  of  entrance  when  a  woman  came  swiftly 
down  the  empty  aisle  as  from  some  distant  corner 
of  the  church  and  stood  behind  them  for  an  instant. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Rutherford's  room,  gentlemen  " — 
with  a  delicate  flavour  of  Highland  in  the  perfect 
English  accent — "  and  would  it  be  possible  for  me 
to  see  him  .  .  .  alone  ? " 

They  received  a  shock  of  delight  on  the  very 
sight  of  her  and  did  instant  homage.  It  was  not 
on  account  of  her  magnificent  beauty — a  woman 
in  the  height  of  her  glory — nor  the  indescribable 
manner  of  good  society,  nor  the  perfection  of  her 
dressing,  nor  a  singular  dignity  of  carriage.  They 
bowed  before  her  for  the  look  in  her  eyes,  the  pride 
of  love,  and,  although  both  are  becoming  each  day 
her  more  devoted  slaves,  yet  they  agree  that  she 
could  only  look  once  as  she  did  that  night. 

It  was  Charlie  that  showed  her  in,  playing  beadle 
for  the  occasion  that  this  princess  might  not  have 
to  wait  one  minute,  and  his  honour  obliged  him  to 


ST.  BEDE'S  69 

withdraw  instantly,  but  before  the  door  could  be 
closed  he  heard  Rutherford  cry — 

"  At  last,  Magdalen,  my  love !  " 

"  Do  you  think,  Charlie     .     .     .  ?  " 

"  Rutherford  has  got  his  reward,  Jack,  and  twen- 
ty years  would  not  have  been  too  long  to  wait." 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    MAN 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

I 

"  We  must  have  Trixy  Marsden  on  the  Thurs- 
day,"— for  Mrs.  Leslie  was  arranging  two  dinner 
parties.  "  She  will  be  in  her  element  that  even- 
ing ;  but  what  are  we  to  do  with  Mr.  Marsden  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  rather  the  custom  to  invite  a  husband 
with  his  wife  ?  he  might  even  expect  to  be  included," 
said  John  Leslie.  "  Do  you  know  I'm  glad  we  came 
to  Putney;  spring  is  lovely  in  the  garden." 

"  Never  mind  spring  just  now,"  as  Leslie  threat- 
ened an  exit  to  the  lawn ;  "  you  might  have  some 
consideration  for  an  afflicted  hostess,  and  give  your 
mind  to  the  Marsden  problem." 

"  It  was  Marsden  brought  spring  into  my  mind," 
and  Leslie  sat  down  with  that  expression  of  resig- 
nation on  his  face  peculiar  to  husbands  consulted 
on  domestic  affairs ;  "  he  was  telling  me  this  morn- 
ing in  the  train  that  he  had  just  finished  a  table  of 
trees  in  the  order  of  their  budding,  a  sort  of  spring 
priority  list;  his  love  for  statistics  is  amazing. 

"  He  is  getting  to  be  known  on  the  9  train ;  the 
men  keep  their  eye  on  him  and  bolt  into  thirds  to 

73 


74  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

escape;  he  gave  a  morning  on  the  influenza  death- 
rate  lately,  and  that  kind  of  thing  spreads. 

"  But  he's  not  a  bad  fellow  for  all  that,"  con- 
cluded Leslie ;  "  he's  perfectly  straight  in  business, 
and  that  is  saying  something;  I  rather  enjoy  half 
an  hour  with  him." 

"  Very  likely  you  do,"  said  his  wife  with  im- 
patience, "  because  your  mind  has  a  squint,  and 
you  get  amusement  out  of  odd  people;  but  every 
one  has  not  your  taste  for  the  tiresome.  He  is 
enough  to  devastate  a  dinner  table ;  do  you  remem- 
ber that  escapade  of  his  last  year  ?  " 

"  You  mean  when  he  corrected  you  about  the 
length  of  the  American  passage,  and  gave  the  sail- 
ings of  the  Atlantic  liners  since  '80,"  and  Leslie  lay 
back  to  enjoy  the  past :  "  it  seemed  to  me  most  in- 
structive, and  every  one  gave  up  conversation  to 
listen." 

"  Because  no  one  could  do  anything  else  with 
that  voice  booming  through  the  room.  I  can  still 
hear  him :  '  the  Columba,  six  days,  four  hours,  five 
minutes/  Then  I  rose  and  delivered  the  table." 

"  It  was  only  human  to  be  a  little  nettled  by  his 
accuracy;  but  you  ought  not  to  have  retreated  so 
soon,  for  he  gave  the  express  trains  of  England  a 
little  later,  and  hinted  at  the  American  lines.  One 
might  almost  call  such  a  memory  genius." 

"  Which  is  often  another  name  for  idiocy,  John. 
Some  one  was  telling  me  yesterday  that  quiet, 
steady  men  rush  out  of  the  room  at  the  sound  of  his 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  75 

voice,  and  their  wives  have  to  tell  all  sorts  of  false- 
hoods about  their  absence. 

"  Trixy  is  one  of  my  oldest  and  dearest  friends, 
and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  pass  her  over ;  but  I  will 
not  have  her  husband  on  any  account." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  as  a  hostess ;  it  is  a  little 
hard  for  a  frivolous  circle  to  live  up  to  Marsden, 
and  I  hear  that  he  has  got  up  the  temperatures  of 
the  health  resorts;  it's  a  large  subject,  and  lends 
itself  to  detail." 

"  It  will  not  be  given  in  this  house.  What  Trixy 
must  endure  with  that  man!  he's  simply  possessed 
by  a  didactic  devil,  and  ought  never  to  have  mar- 
ried. Statistics  don't  amount  to  cruelty,  I  suppose, 
as  a  ground  of  divorce  ?  " 

"  Hardly  as  yet ;  by-and-by  incompatibility  in 
politics  or  faction  will  be  admitted;  but  how  do 
you  know,  Florence,  that  Mrs.  Marsden  does  not 
appreciate  her  husband?  You  never  can  tell  what 
a  woman  sees  in  a  man.  Perhaps  this  woman  hun- 
gers for  statistics  as  a  make-weight.  She  is  very 
amusing,  but  a  trifle  shallow,  don't  you  think?" 

"  She  used  to  be  the  brightest  and  most  charm- 
ing girl  in  our  set,  and  I  have  always  believed 
that  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Marsden  by  her  peo- 
ple. Trixy  has  six  hundred  a  year  settled  on  her, 
and  they  were  afraid  of  fortune-hunters.  Mothers 
are  apt  to  feel  that  a  girl  is  safe  with  a  man  of  the 
Marsden  type,  and  that  nothing  more  can  be 
desired." 


76  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

"  Perhaps  they  are  not  far  wrong.  Marsden  is 
not  a  romantic  figure,  and  he  is  scarcely  what  you 
would  call  a  brilliant  raconteur;  but  he  serves  his 
wife  like  a  slave,  and  he  will  never  give  her  a  sore 
heart." 

"  Do  you  think  it  nothing,  John,  that  a  woman 
with  ideals  should  be  tied  to  a  bore  all  her  days? 
What  a  contrast  between  her  brother  and  her  hus- 
band, for  instance.  Godfrey  is  decidedly  one  of 
the  most  charming  men  I  ever  met." 

"  He  has  a  nice  tenor  voice,  I  grant,  and  his 
drawing-room  comedies  are  very  amusing.  Of 
course,  no  one  believes  a  word  he  says,  and  I  think 
that  he  has  never  got  a  discharge  from  his  last 
bankruptcy;  but  you  can't  expect  perfection. 
Character  seems  to  oscillate  between  dulness  and 
dishonesty." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense  for  the  sake  of  alliteration, 
John.  Trixy's  brother  was  never  intended  for  busi- 
ness; he  ought  to  have  been  a  writer,  and  I  know 
he  was  asked  to  join  the  staff  of  the  Boomeller. 
Happy  thought !  I'll  ask  him  to  come  with  his  sister 
instead  of  Mr.  Marsden." 

And  this  was  the  note: 

"  MY  DEAR  TRIXY, — 

"  We  are  making  up  a  dinner  party  for  the  even- 
ing of  June  2nd,  at  eight  o'clock,  and  we  simply 
cannot  go  on  without  you  and  Mr.  Marsden,  Write 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  77 

instantly  to  say  you  accept;  it  is  an  age  since  I've 
seen  you,  and  my  husband  is  absolutely  devoted  to 
Mr.  Marsden.  He  was  telling  me  only  a  minute 
ago  that  one  reason  why  he  goes  by  the  9  train  is 
to  get  the  benefit  of  your  husband's  conversation. 
With  much  love, 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  FLORENCE  LESLIE. 

"  P.S. — It  does  seem  a  shame  that  Mr.  Marsden 
should  have  to  waste  an  evening  on  a  set  of  stupid 
people,  and  if  he  can't  tear  himself  from  his  books, 
then  you  will  take  home  a  scolding  to  him  from 
me. 

"  P.S. — If  Mr.  Marsden  will  not  condescend, 
bring  Godfrey  to  take  care  of  you,  and  tell  him  that 
we  shall  expect  some  music." 


78  AN   IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 


II 


"  Come  to  this  corner,  Trixy,  and  let  us  have 
a  quiet  talk  before  the  men  arrive  from  the  dining- 
room.  I  hope  your  husband  is  duly  grateful  to  me 
for  allowing  him  off  this  social  ordeal.  Except 
perhaps  John,  I  don't  think  there  is  a  person  here 
fit  to  discuss  things  with  him." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Marsden  does  not  care  one  straw 
whether  they  know  his  subjects  or  not  so  long  as 
people  will  listen  to  him,  and  I'm  sure  he  was  quite 
eager  to  come,  but  I  wanted  Godfrey  to  have  a  little 
pleasure. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  for  poor  Godfrey,"  and  Mrs. 
Marsden  settled  herself  down  to  confidences.  "  You 
know  he  lost  all  his  money  two  years  ago  through 
no  fault  of  his  own.  It  was  simply  the  stupidity 
of  his  partner,  who  was  quite  a  common  man,  and 
could  not  carry  out  Godfrey's  plans.  My  husband 
might  have  helped  the  firm  through  their  difficulty, 
but  he  was  quite  obstinate,  and  very  unkind  also. 
He  spoke  as  if  Godfrey  had  been  careless  and  lazy, 
when  the  poor  fellow  really  injured  his  health  and 
had  to  go  to  Brighton  for  two  months  to  recruit." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  put  in  Mrs.  Leslie ;  "  we  hap- 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  79 

pened  to  be  at  the  Metropole  one  week  end,  and 
Godfrey  looked  utterly  jaded." 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  much  he  suffered,  Florrie, 
and  how  beautifully  he  bore  the  trial.  Why,  had  it 
not  been  for  me,  he  would  not  have  had  money  to 
pay  his  hotel  bill,  and  that  was  a  dreadful  change 
for  a  man  like  him.  He  has  always  been  very 
proud,  and  much  petted  by  people.  The  poor  fellow 
has  never  been  able  to  find  a  suitable  post  since, 
although  he  spends  days  in  the  city  among  his  old 
friends,  and  I  can  see  how  it  is  telling  on  him.  And 
— Florrie,  I  wouldn't  mention  it  to  any  one  except 
an  old  friend — Mr.  Marsden  has  not  made  our  house 
pleasant  to  poor  Godfrey." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  he  ...  reflects  on  his 
misfortunes." 

"  Doesn't  he  ?  It's  simply  disgusting  what  he 
will  say  at  times.  Only  yesterday  morning — this 
is  absolutely  between  you  and  me,  one  must  have 
some  confidant — Godfrey  made  some  remark  in  fun 
about  the  cut  of  Tom's  coat;  he  will  not  go,  you 
know,  do  what  I  like,  to  a  proper  tailor." 

"  Godfrey  is  certainly  much  better  dressed,"  said 
Mrs.  Leslie,  "  than  either  of  our  husbands." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  that  made  Tom  angry,  but  at 
any  rate  he  said  quite  shortly,  '  I  can't  afford  to 
dress  better/  and  of  course  Godfrey  knew  what 
he  meant.  It  was  cruel  in  the  circumstances,  for 
many  men  spend  far  more  on  their  clothes  than 
Godfrey.  He  simply  gives  his  mind  to  the  matter 


8o  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

and  takes  care  of  his  things ;  he  will  spend  any  time 
selecting  a  colour  or  getting  a  coat  fitted." 

"  Is  your  brother  quite  .  .  .  dependent  on 
.  .  .  his  friends,  Trixy  ? " 

"  Yes,  in  the  meantime,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  we  ought  to  be  the  more  considerate.  I  wished 
to  settle  half  my  income  on  him,  but  it  is  only  a 
third  of  what  it  used  to  be — something  to  do  with 
investments  has  reduced  it — and  Mr.  Marsden 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing;  he  allows  Godfrey 
one  hundred  a  year,  but  that  hardly  keeps  him  in 
clothes  and  pocket  money." 

"  Still,  don't  you  think  it's  all  Godfrey  could  ex- 
pect ? "  and  Mrs.  Leslie  was  inclined  for  once  to 
defend  this  abused  man.  "  Few  husbands  would 
do  as  much  for  a  brother-in-law." 

"  Oh,  of  course  he  does  it  for  my  sake,  and  he 
means  to  be  kind.  But,  Florrie,  Mr.  Marsden  is 
so  careful  and  saving,  always  speaking  as  if  we  were 
poor  and  had  to  lay  up  for  the  future,  while  I  know 
he  has  a  large  income  and  a  sure  business. 

"  Why,  he  would  not  leave  that  horrid  street  in 
Highbury,  say  what  I  could;  and  I  owe  it  to  God- 
frey that  we  have  come  to  Putney.  When  Tom 
went  out  to  Alexandria,  my  brother  simply  took  our 
present  house  and  had  it  furnished  in  Mr.  Mars- 
den's  name,  and  so  when  he  came  home  from  Alex- 
andria we  were  established  in  The  Cottage." 

"  John  is  the  best  of  husbands,  but  I  dare  not 
have  changed  our  house  in  his  absence,"  and  Mrs. 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  81 

Leslie  began  to  get  new  views  on  the  situation. 
"  Was  Mr.  Marsden  not  rather  startled  ?  " 

"  He  was  inclined  to  be  angry  with  Godfrey,  but 
I  sent  the  boy  off  to  Scarborough  for  a  month ;  and 
he  is  never  hasty  to  me,  only  tiresome — you  can't 
imagine  how  tiresome." 

"  Is  it  the  statistics?" 

"  Worse  than  that.  He  has  begun  the  Reforma- 
tion now,  and  insists  on  reading  from  some  stuffy 
old  book  every  evening,  Dumas'  History,  I  think, 
till  I  wish  there  never  had  been  such  a  thing,  and 
we  were  all  Roman  Catholics." 

"  Very  likely  he  would  have  read  about  the  Popes, 
then,  or  the  saints.  My  dear  girl,  you  don't  wish 
to  have  your  mind  improved.  You  ought  to  be 
proud  of  your  husband ;  most  men  sleep  after  dinner 
with  an  evening  paper  in  their  hands,  and  are  quite 
cross  if  they're  wakened.  But  there  they  come,  and 
we  must  have  Godfrey's  last  song." 


82  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 


III 


"  Nurse  will  rise  at  four  and  bring  you  a  nice 
cup  of  tea.  Are  you  sure  you  will  not  weary,  being 
alone  for  two  hours  ?  "  and  Mrs.  Marsden,  in  charm- 
ing outdoor  dress,  blew  eau-de-Cologne  about  the 
room.  "  Don't  you  love  scent?  " 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Marsden,  fol- 
lowing her  with  fond  eyes.  "  You  told  me  yester- 
day, but  I  forget ;  this  illness  has  made  me  stupider 
than  ever,  I  think.  Wasn't  it  some  charity  ?  " 

"  It's  the  new  society  every  one  is  so  interested 
in,  '  The  Working  Wives'  Culture  Union.'  What 
is  wanted  is  happy  homes  for  the  working  men," 
quoting  freely  from  an  eloquent  woman  orator, 
"  and  the  women  must  be  elevated ;  so  the  East 
End  is  to  be  divided  into  districts,  and  two  young 
women  will  be  allotted  to  each.  Are  you  listen- 
ing?" 

"  Yes,  dear;  but  it  rests  me  to  lie  with  my  eyes 
closed.  Tell  me  all  about  your  society.  What  are 
the  young  ladies  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  to  visit  the  wives  in  the  afternoon 
and  read  books  to  them :  solid  books,  you  know, 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN          83 

about  wages  and  ...  all  kinds  of  things  work- 
ing men  like.  Then  in  the  evening  the  wives  will 
be  able  to  talk  with  their  husbands  on  equal  terms, 
and  the  men  will  not  want  to  go  to  the  public- 
houses.  Isn't  it  a  capital  idea?" 

A  sad  little  smile  touched  Marsden's  lips  for 
an  instant.  "  And  where  do  you  meet  to-day  ? 
It's  a  long  way  for  you  to  go  to  Whitechapel." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?  The  Marchioness  of  Glou- 
cester is  giving  a  Drawing  Room  at  her  town  house, 
and  Lady  Helen  wrote  an  urgent  note,  insisting  that 
I  should  come,  even  though  it  were  only  for  an  hour, 
as  her  mother  depended  on  my  advice  so  much. 

"  Of  :ourse,  I  know  that's  just  a  way  of  putting 
it;  but  I  have  taken  lots  of  trouble  about  found- 
ing the  Union,  so  I  think  it  would  hardly  do  for  me 
to  be  absent.  You're  feeling  much  better,  too,  to- 
day, aren't  you,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Yes,  much  better ;  the  pain  has  almost  ceased ; 
perhaps  it  will  be  quite  gone  when  you  return. 
Can  you  spare  just  ten  minutes  to  sit  beside  me? 
There  is  something  I  have  been  wanting  to  say,  and 
perhaps  this  is  my  only  chance.  When  I  am  well 
again  I  may  ...  be  afraid." 

Mrs.  Marsden  sat  down  wondering,  and  her  hus- 
band waited  a  minute. 

"  One  understands  many  things  that  puzzled 
him  before,  when  he  lies  in  quietness  for  weeks 
and  takes  an  after  look.  I  suspected  it  at  times 
before,  but  I  was  a  coward  and  put  the  thought 


84  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

away.  It  seemed  curious  that  no  one  came  to  spend 
an  hour  with  me,  as  men  do  with  friends ;  and  I 
noticed  that  they  appeared  to  avoid  me.  I  thought 
it  was  fancy,  and  that  I  had  grown  self-con- 
scious. 

"  Everything  is  quite  plain  now,  and  I  ... 
am  not  hurt,  dear,  and  I  don't  blame  any  person; 
that  would  be  very  wrong.  People  might  have  been 
far  more  impatient  with  me,  and  might  have  made 
my  life  miserable. 

"  God  gave  me  a  dull  mind  and  a  slow  tongue ; 
it  took  me  a  long  time  to  grasp  anything,  and  no 
one  cared  about  the  subjects  that  interested  me. 
Beatrice  ...  I  wish  now  you  had  told  me  how 
I  bored  our  friends ;  it  would  have  been  a  kindness : 
but  never  mind  that  now ;  you  did  not  like  to  give 
me  pain. 

"  What  troubles  me  most  is  that  all  these  years 
you  should  have  been  tied  to  a  very  tiresome  fel- 
low," and  Marsden  made  some  poor  attempt  at  a 
smile.  "  Had  I  thought  of  what  was  before  you,  I 
would  never  have  asked  you  to  marry  me. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear ;  I  did  not  wish  to  hurt  you. 
I  wanted  to  ask  your  pardon  for  ...  all  that 
martyrdom,  and  ...  to  thank  you  for  .  .  . 
being  my  wife ;  and  there's  something  else. 

"  You  see  when  I  get  well  and  am  not  lying  in 
bed  here,  maybe  I  could  not  tell  you,  so  let  me  ex- 
plain everything  now,  and  then  we  need  not  speak 
about  such  things  again. 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  85 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  me  too  economical,  but  I 
was  saving  for  a  purpose.  Your  portion  has  not 
brought  quite  so  much  as  it  did,  and  I  wished  to 
make  it  up  to  you,  and  now  you  can  have  your  six 
hundred  a  year  as  before;  if  this  illness  had  gone 
against  me,  you  would  have  been  quite  comfortable 
— in  money,  I  mean,  dear. 

"  No,  I  insist  on  your  going  to  Lady  Glouces- 
ter's; the  change  will  do  you  good,  and  I'll  lie  here 
digesting  the  Reformation,  you  know,"  and  he 
smiled,  better  this  time,  quite  creditably,  in  fact. 
"  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  just  to  keep  till  we  meet 
again  ?  " 

When  the  nurse  came  down  at  four  to  take 
charge,  she  was  horrified  to  find  her  patient  alone, 
and  in  the  death  agony,  but  conscious  and  able  to 
speak. 

"  Don't  ring  .  .  .  nor  send  for  my  wife 
.  .  .  I  sent  .  .  .  her  away  knowing  the  end 
was  near  .  .  .  made  her  go,  in  fact  .  .  . 
against  her  will." 

The  nurse  gave  him  brandy,  and  he  became 
stronger  for  a  minute. 

"  She  has  had  a  great  deal  to  bear  with  me,  and  I 
.  .  .  did  not  wish  her  to  see  death.  My  man- 
ner has  been  always  so  wearisome  ...  I  hoped 
that  .  .  .  nobody  would  be  here.  You  are 
very  kind,  nurse ;  no  more,  if  you  please. 

"  Would  it  trouble  you  ...  to  hold  my 
hand,  nurse?  It's  a  little  lonely  ...  I  am  not 


86  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

afraid     ...     a  wayfaring  man     .     .     .     though 
a  fool     .     .     .     not  err  therein     .     .     ." 

He  was  not  nearly  so  tedious  with  his  dying  as 
he  had  been  with  his  living :  very  shortly  afterwards 
Thomas  Marsden  had  done  with  statistics  for  ever. 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  87 


IV 


Three  days  later  Leslie  came  home  from  the  city 
with  tidings  on  his  face,  and  he  told  them  to  his  wife 
when  they  were  alone  that  night. 

"  Marsden's  lawyer  made  an  appointment  after 
the  funeral,  and  I  had  an  hour  with  him.  He  has 
asked  me  to  be  a  trustee  with  himself  in  Mrs.  Mars- 
den's  settlement." 

"  I'm  so  glad ;  you  must  accept,  for  it  will  be 
such  a  comfort  to  poor  Beatrice ;  but  I  thought  God- 
frey was  her  sole  trustee." 

"  So  he  was,"  said  Leslie,  grimly,  "  more's  the 
pity,  and  he  embezzled  every  penny  of  the  funds 
— gambled  them  away  in  card-playing  and  .  .  . 
other  ways." 

"Godfrey  Harrison,   Beatrice's  brother?" 

"  Yes,  her  much-admired,  accomplished,  ill-used 
brother,  the  victim  of  her  husband's  stinginess." 

"  If   that    be   true,    then    Godfrey    is    simply    a 
» 

"  You  mean  an  unmitigated  scoundrel.  Quite 
so,  Florence,  and  a  number  of  other  words  we  won't 
go  over.  I  tell  you,"  and  Leslie  sprang  to  his  feet, 
"  there  is  some  use  in  swearing ;  if  it  had  not  been 


88  AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN 

for  one  or  two  expressions  that  came  to  my  memory 
suddenly  to-day,  I  should  have  been  ill.  Curious  to 
say,  the  lawyer  seemed  to  enjoy  them  as  much  as 
myself,  so  it  must  be  a  bad  case." 

"  But  I  don't  understand — if  Godfrey  spent 
Trixy's  money,  how  is  there  anything  to  manage? 
Did  he  pay  it  back  ?  " 

"  No,  he  did  not,  and  could  not ;  he  has  not 
enough  brains  to  earn  eighteenpence  except  by 
cheating,  and  if  by  any  chance  he  came  into  a  for- 
tune, would  grudge  his  sister  a  pound." 

"Then     .     .     .?" 

"  Don't  you  begin  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  facts  ? 
Why,  Marsden  toiled  and  scraped,  and  in  the  end, 
so  the  doctors  say,  killed  himself  to  replace  the 
money,  and  he  had  just  succeeded  before  his  death." 

"  How  good  of  him !  but  I  don't  see  the  necessity 
of  all  this  secrecy  on  his  part,  and  all  those  stories 
about  low  interest  that  he  told  Trixy." 

"  There  was  no  necessity ;  if  it  had  been  some 
of  us,  we  would  have  let  Mrs.  Marsden  know  what 
kind  of  brother  she  had,  and  ordered  him  out  of 
the  country  on  threat  of  jail. 

"  It  was  Marsden's  foolishness,  let  us  call  it,  to 
spare  his  wife  the  disgrace  of  her  idol  and  the  loss 
of  his  company.  So  her  husband  was  despised  be- 
side this  precious  rascal  every  day." 

"  Trixy  will  get  a  terrible  shock  when  she  is  told ; 
it  would  almost  have  been  kinder  to  let  her  know 
the  truth  before  he  died." 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  MAN  89 

"  Mrs.  Marsden  is  never  to  know,"  said  Leslie ; 
"  that  was  his  wish ;  she's  just  to  be  informed  that 
new  trustees  have  been  appointed,  and  we  are  to 
take  care  that  she  does  not  waste  her  income  on  the 
fellow. 

"  People  will  send  letters  of  condolence  to  Mrs. 
Marsden,  but  they  will  say  at  afternoon  teas  that  it 
must  be  a  great  relief  to  her,  and  that  it's  quite  beau- 
tiful to  see  her  sorrow.  In  two  years  she  will  mar- 
ry some  well-dressed  fool,  and  they  will  live  on 
Marsden's  money,"  and  Leslie's  voice  had  an  un- 
usual bitterness. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  another  case  like  this, 
John?"  " 

"  Never ;  when  old  Parchment  described  Mars- 
den giving  him  the  instructions,  he  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

" '  Marsden,'  he  said,  '  was  the  biggest  fool  I 
ever  came  across  in  the  course  of  forty-two  years' 
practice,'  and  he  went  over  to  the  window." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  went  to  the  fireplace ;  we  were  both  so  dis- 
gusted with  the  man  that  we  couldn't  speak  for 
five  minutes." 

After  a  short  while  Mrs.  Leslie  said,  "  It  appears 
to  me  that  this  slow,  uninteresting  man,  whom  every 
one  counted  a  bore,  was  in  his  own  way  .  .  . 
almost  a  hero." 

"  Or  altogether,"  replied  John  Leslie, 


RIGHTEOUS   OVER   MUCH 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 


"  How  do  you  do,  Crashavv  ?  didn't  know  you 
condescended  to  conversaziones  at  the  Town  Hall, 
at  least  when  there  is  no  dancing.  Their  Wor- 
ships will  be  satisfied  this  evening,  for  the  whole 
world  and  his  wife  seem  to  be  here,  and  some  people 
that  have  never  been  in  the  world  before,  one  would 
judge." 

"  There  is  just  one  person  I  wish  particularly 
to  see,  and  I  can't  find  her;  that  is  Arkwright's 
young  wife.  I  passed  the  old  man  himself  a  minute 
ago,  conversing  with  Peterson,  and  lecturing  on  the 
effect  of  the  American  tariff  on  wool.  Has  he  left 
her  at  home,  Jack,  to  keep  her  out  of  harm  and  to 
tantalise  the  public  ?  " 

"  Not  he.  Jacob  is  quite  proud  of  her,  to  do 
him  justice,  and  worships  the  ground  on  which 
she  treads,  although  I  doubt  whether  she  knows 
that  or  cares.  Mrs.  Arkwright  is  very  beautiful  in 
my  humble  judgment,  but  there  is  a  wide  gulf  be- 
tween twenty-one  and  seventy.  Besides,  she  has  a 
temper,  and  no  sympathy  with  his  religious  notions. 
When  December  weds  May,  it's  bound  to  be  either 

93 


94      RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

a  comedy  or  a  tragedy,  and  this  is  half  and 
between." 

"  When  you  have  quite  finished  your  interesting 
moral  reflections,  Jack,  and  can  attend  to  prac- 
tical detail,  could  you  do  me  the  pleasure  of  pointing 
Mrs.  Arkwright  out  to  me,  and,  as  you  seem  to 
have  seen  a  good  deal  of  her,  introducing  your  un- 
worthy servant?  I'll  be  able  then  to  judge  for  my- 
self. We  are  obliged  to  Arkwright  for  creating  a 
piquant  situation." 

"  Come  to  the  next  room,  where  the  band  is 
playing;  Mrs.  Arkwright  was  there  ten  minutes 
ago.  But  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  intrude  on 
her  at  the  present  moment,  even  although  provided 
with  so  good-looking  and  well-dressed  an  excuse. 
Yes ;  there,  Crashaw,  in  the  alcove,  talking  to  a  par- 
son ;  that  is  Jacob's  wife.  Was  I  right?  " 

"  Your  taste,  Jack,  is  perfect,  but,  indeed,  a  man 
who  admires  Mrs.  Arkwright  deserves  no  credit; 
it  is  inevitable.  There  is  prettiness,  and  there  is 
sweetness,  and  there  is  taking-ness,  and  they  are 
very  well,  but  this  is  on  another  level." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  astonished,  and  am 
pleased  to  notice  that  even  so  blase  a  critic  of 
womankind  can  grow  enthusiastic  on  occasion. 
Isn't  that  a  proud  head  ?  " 

"  Why,  Jack,  that  woman  ought  to  have  been 
a  duchess,  and  a  leader  of  society  in  town,  instead 
of  Mrs.  Jacob  Arkwright,  wife  of  a  self-made  wool- 
spinner  and  a  deacon.  Her  face  is  the  most  com- 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH       95 

plete  piece  of  Grecian  beauty  I  ever  saw — nose,  eyes, 
chin,  mouth,  perfect ;  forehead  perhaps  the  slightest 
bit  high — a  Greek  would  have  worn  a  ribbon — and 
that  glorious  hair,  brown  shot  with  gold." 

"  She  is  certainly  looking  splendid  to-night.  Do 
you  notice  how  she  has  put  the  other  women  to 
confusion  ?  " 

"  Simply  a  goddess  among  a  lot  of  peasants. 
I  say,  Jack,  how  in  the  world  did  that  girl,  with 
such  a  face  and  such  an  air,  ever  marry  Ark- 
wright?  Where  was  she  hidden  away?  Had 
she  no  opportunity?  Talk  about  waste,  this  is  an 
absolute  sin.  Do  you  know  her  history  ?  " 

"  Lived  with  her  mother,  and  got  her  living  by 
teaching.  Arkwright,  who  has  all  his  life  been 
busy  with  wool  and  religious  affairs,  saw  her  in 
chapel,  and  remembered  he  was  human.  Fell  in 
love  with  her  on  first  sight,  having  lived  scathe- 
less unto  three  score  years  and  ten,  and  got  a 
fellow-deacon  to  negotiate  the  affair;  at  least,  so 
it  is  reported." 

"  Most  likely,  I  should  say ;  but,  Jack,  what  an 
abandoned  criminal  that  mother  of  hers  must  have 
been,  and  what  did  she  herself  do  this  thing  for? 
She  has  a  will  of  her  own,  or  else  I  do  not  know 
a  woman's  face." 

"  Oh,  the  old  story.  Her  mother  was  proud  and 
poor,  and  considered  Arkwright  an  excellent  suitor. 
Mrs.  Arkwright  is  not  much  troubled  about  religion, 
and  I  fancy  has  a  very  different  idea  of  things 


96      RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

from  her  husband,  but  she  had  the  chance  of  a  hand- 
some provision  for  herself  and  her  mother,  and  she 
seized  it.  There  could  be  no  romance ;  but  can  you 
blame  the  old  lady,  Crashaw,  urging  such  a  mar- 
riage, or  the  daughter  escaping  from  the  dreary 
governess  life  ?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  The  girl  took  the  veil, 
and  obtained  a  settlement  at  the  same  time,  after 
a  sound  Protestant  fashion;  but  it  does  seem  a 
crime  against  nature  to  sacrifice  a  beautiful  young 
woman  to  a  hard,  bloodless  old  Puritan  like  Ark- 
wright,  who  is,  I  grant  you,  very  able  in  wool,  and 
perfectly  straight  in  character,  but  who  is  perfectly 
uncultured  and  hopelessly  bigoted.  What  a  life  of 
dreariness  she  must  lead  in  the  Arkwright  circle !  " 

"  Well,  of  course  she  can't  attend  concerts,  nor 
dance,  nor  hunt,  nor  go  into  society,  but  she  has 
a  good  home,  and  a  carriage,  and  as  much  money 
as  she  can  spend.  I  don't  suppose  that  she  cares 
for  Jacob,  but  she  does  her  duty  as  a  wife,  and 
does  not  seem  unhappy." 

"  Certainly  Mrs.  Arkwright  is  not  unhappy  this 
evening  with  her  present  companion.  I  will  hazard 
the  guess,  Jack,  without  any  reflection  on  her  wife- 
ly character,  that  she  never  looked  at  her  worthy, 
but  not  very  attractive,  husband  with  the  same  in- 
terest which  she  is  bestowing  on  that  handsome  par- 
son. Who  is  he,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Egerton's  his  name,  and  he's  Arkwright's  min- 
ister— a  Congregationalist,  or  Baptist;  I  can  never 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH       97 

remember  the  difference.  He  is  a  very  able  fellow, 
they  say,  and  a  rattling  good  preacher,  quite  broad 
and  liberal  in  his  views,  but  a  perfect  ascetic  in  his 
life.  He  must  be  very  much  in  Mrs.  Arkwright's 
company,  and  he's  certainly  the  decentest  man  she 
knows." 

"  Arkwright  is  about  seventy,  and  is  not  so  strong 
as  he  looks,  Jack ;  his  wife  will  have  time  to  console 
herself,  and  her  second  husband  will  be  a  very  lucky 
man,  for  he  will  have  a  fortune  and  her  heart." 


98      RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 


II 


"  You  have  come  quickly,  Mr.  Egerton,  and  that 
was  well  done,"  said  Jacob  Arkwright,  looking  very 
white  and  worn,  propped  up  with  pillows.  "  I  have 
much  to  say,  and  I'll  take  a  sup  o'  brandy ;  them  that 
never  touches  drink  when  they're  well  get  the  good 
when  they're  ill. 

"  That  gives  me  the  strength  I  need  for  the  time, 
and  ma  work  is  nearly  done.  Don't  go  away,  Laura ; 
I  want  you  to  hear  what  I  say  to  the  pastor. 

"  The  doctor  says  'at  ma  days  are  few,  mayhap 
only  to-morrow,  and  it's  best  to  speak  when  a  man's 
head  is  clear,  and  I  thank  God  mine  is  that,  though 
my  body  be  weakened  by  this  sickness." 

His  wife  stood  on  one  side  of  the  bed,  now  and 
then  rearranging  the  pillows  at  his  back  and  bathing 
his  forehead  with  vinegar — for  scent  he  would  not 
have — and  Egerton  stood  on  the  other,  refusing  to 
sit  down  while  she  stood,  and  watching  her  strong 
white  hands  at  their  service,  but  only  once  did  he 
look  her  straight  in  the  face. 

"You're  young,  Pastor — thirty,  did  ye  say? — 
and  I'm  owd,  seventy-two  this  month,  and  I  havena 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH       99 

known  you  long,  but  there's  no  mon  I've  liked  bet- 
ter or  could  trust  more."  And  he  looked  steadily 
at  Egerton  with  a  certain  softening  of  expression. 

"  You've  been  very  kind  to  me  and  to  the  chapel, 
Mr.  Arkwright,  and  I  hope  it  may  be  God's  will  to 
spare  you  and  raise  you  up  again,"  and  although 
the  words  were  formal,  the  accent  was  tender  and 
moving. 

"  No,  no,  lad ;  our  times  are  in  His  hand,  and 
I  have  received  the  summons,  and  so  we  'ill  go  to 
business.  And  first  about  ma  affairs.  I  wish  ye 
to  understand  everything,  that  ye  may  be  able  to  do 
your  duty  by  ma  widow." 

Egerton  was  conscious  that  Mrs.  Arkwright 
straightened  herself,  and  could  feel  the  silence  in 
the  room;  but  the  dying  man  was  not  one  to  ap- 
preciate an  atmosphere. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  was  too  owd  for  marrying, 
and  ma  ways  too  old-fashioned.  Ma  house  has  no 
been  very  bright  for  a  young  wife,  and  ma  con- 
science did  not  allow  me  liberty  in  worldly  amuse- 
ments. But  according  to  my  nature  I  can  say  before 
God  that  I  loved  ye,  Laura,  and  have  tried  to  do 
ma  part  by  ye." 

"  You  married  me  a  poor  girl,  and  have  been  most 
.  .  .  kind  to  me,  Jacob.  Why  speak  of  such 
things?  "  and  her  voice  was  proud  and  pained. 

"  You  have  been  a  faithful  wife  to  me,"  he  went 
on,  as  one  fulfilling  a  plan,  "  and  have  put  up  with 
my  .  .  .  peculiarities — for  I  know  you  do  not 


TOO    RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

think  wi'  me  in  things,  and  do  not  like  some  of  the 
men  'at  came  to  the  house.  Oh,  I  said  nowt,  but  I 
saw  aal." 

Mrs.  Arkwright  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's, 
and  it  occurred  to  Egerton  from  a  slight  flush  on 
his  face  that  she  had  never  done  this  before. 

"  Ma  will  has  been  made  for  a  year  " — it  was 
plain  that  Mr.  Arkwright  was  to  go  on  to  the 
end,  and  Egerton  could  not  have  lifted  his  eyes 
for  a  ransom — "  and  I  have  left  aal  to  my  wife 
without  any  condition,  with  just  one  legacy.  It 
is  to  you,  Egerton,  and  I  hope  you  'ill  not  refuse 
it — just  something  to  remind  you  of  me,  and 
.  .  .  get  you  books." 

"  It  was  very  .  .  .  good  of  you,  sir,  and  I 
am  most  .  .  .  grateful,  but  I  ...  really 
can't  accept  your  kindness.  It  is  not  likely  that  I 
will  ever  marry,  and  I've  got  enough  for  myself." 

As  he  spoke,  Mrs.  Arkwright  shook  up  the  pil- 
lows hastily,  and  went  to  a  side  table  for  a  glass. 

"  Well,  if  you  will  not,  then  there's  an  end  of  it ; 
but  you  will  grant  me  another  favour  which  may  be 
harder,"  and  for  a  minute  Arkwright  seemed  to 
hesitate. 

"  Ma  wife  will  be  left  young  and  rich,  and  al- 
though I  have  never  said  it  to  you,  ma  lass,  she  is 
.  .  .  beautiful." 

"  Jacob,  this  is  not  seemly."  Her  voice  was  vi- 
brant with  passion. 

"  Blame  me  not  for  saying  this  once,  and  if  an- 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     101 

other  be  present,  he  is  our  friend,  and  I  am  coming 
to  my  point;  the  brandy  again,  and  I'll  soon  be 
done. 

"  You  have  no  brother,  and  I  have  no  person 
of  my  blood  to  guide  you,  ma  lass;  ye  might  be 
persecuted  by  men  'at  would  bring  you  nowt  but 
trouble  and  vexation  of  heart.  You  need  an  honest 
man  to  be  your  guardian  and  give  you  advice. 

"  Ye  may  never  want  to  marry  again,  for  I 
doubt  ye  have  had  little  joy  these  years,  or  again 
ye  may,  to  taste  some  joy,  and  I  would  count  it 
unjust  to  hinder  you — peace,  lass,  till  I  be  done; 
I  was  ever  rough  and  plain — and  some  one  must 
see  that  your  husband  be  a  right  mon. 

"  So  I  turned  it  over  in  ma  mind,  and  I  sought 
for  a  friend  'at  was  sound  o'  heart  and  faithful. 
This  speaking  is  hard  on  me,  but  it  'ill  soon  be 
done."  And  as  Mrs.  Arkwright  stooped  to  give 
him  brandy  once  more,  Egerton  saw  that  her  cheeks 
were  burning. 

"  An  older  mon  might  have  been  better,  but 
ye're  old  for  your  years,  Pastor,  and  have  parted 
wi'  the  foolishness  o'  youth.  You  have  some 
notions  I  don't  hold  with,  for  I'm  the  owd  sort — 
believe  and  be  saved,  believe  not  and  be  damned 
— but  ye're  no  a  mon  to  say  yea  and  do  nay. 
Naa,  naa,  I  have  seen  more  than  I  said ;  and  though 
some  'at  came  to  the  house  had  the  true  doctrine, 
they  were  shoddy  stuff. 

"  George  Egerton,  as  I  have  done  good  to  you 


102    RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

and  not  ill  these  years,  will  ye  count  Laura  Ark- 
\vright  as  your  sister,  and  do  to  her  a  brother's 
part,  as  ye  will  answer  to  God  at  the  laast  day?" 

The  wind  lifted  the  blind  and  rustled  in  the  cur- 
tains; the  dying  man  breathed  heavily,  and  waited 
for  an  answer.  Egerton  looked  across  the  bed,  but 
Mrs.  Arkwright  had  withdrawn  behind  the  cur- 
tain. Arkwright's  eyes  met  the  minister's  with  an 
earnest,  searching  glance. 

"  I  will  be  as  a  brother  to  your  wife  while  I 
live." 

As  he  spoke,  Arkwright  grasped  his  hand  and 
gave  a  sigh  of  content;  but  when  Egerton  left  the 
room,  Laura  refused  to  touch  his  hand,  and  her 
face  was  blazing  with  anger. 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     103 


III 


"  You  have  been  very  generous  to  the  chapel, 
and  we  thank  you  very  much  for  keeping  up  all 
Mr.  Arkwright's  subscriptions  those  three  years. 
The  work  of  God  would  have  been  much  crippled 
had  it  not  been  for  your  liberality." 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Egerton,  that  when  you 
talk  in  that  grave,  approving  fashion,  as  if  I  were 
one  of  your  devout  women  like  poor  Mrs.  Tootle, 
who  is  really  a  good  creature,  although  her  hus- 
band is  a  sanctimonious  idiot,  I  feel  a  perfect  hypo- 
crite." 

"  Why     do     you     always     depreciate     yourself 

j> 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me,  for  I  am  determined  to 
settle  this  matter  once  for  all,  and  not  walk  about 
in  a  vain  show,  as  if  I  were  a  saint.  You  think 
me  good,  and  so  do  the  chapel  people,  I  suppose, 
because  I  give  to  foreign  missions  and  Bible- 
women,  and  go  to  the  prayer-meeting,  and  attend 
the  special  meetings.  Do  you  know  why  I  do  those 
things?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  the  minister ;  "  but  I  will 
hear  your  reason." 


io4    RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

"  Because  Mr.  Arkwright  believed  in  missions 
and  evangelists,  and  he  was  ...  a  better  hus- 
band to  me  than  I  was  wife  to  him,  and  because 
it  would  be  dishonourable  not  to  use  his  money  for 
the  objects  he  approved." 

"  And  the  services  ?  Is  that  the  reason  you  are 
always  present,  and  set  such  a  good  example  ? " 
And  it  was  plain  the  minister  did  not  take  Mrs. 
Arkwright  at  her  value  of  herself. 

"  Oh,  this  is  because     .     .     .     because     .     .     ." 

"Yes?"  And  Mr.  Egerton  smiled  as  one  who 
is  giving  checkmate. 

"  Because  you  were  Jacob's  friend,  and  the  only 
man  he  ...  loved,  and  because,  although  we 
have  quarrelled  several  times,  and  I  have  been  very 
rude  to  you  once  or  twice,  still," — and  a  smile 
brought  Mrs.  Arkwright's  face  to  perfection — "  we 
are  friends  also." 

"  You  have  been  .  .  .  angry  with  me,"  said 
Egerton,  "  when  I  could  not  understand  the  reason, 
but  I  never  doubted  your  friendship.  If  I  were 
in  serious  trouble,  I  would  come  to  you  rather  than 
to  any  man." 

"  Would  you  really  ?  "  Then  her  tone  changed. 
"  I  don't  believe  you,  for  you  would  go  to  some 
snuffy,  maundering  old  minister." 

"  And  you  are  good,"  he  insisted,  taking  no  no- 
tice of  her  petulance.  "  You  are  honest,  and  brave, 
and  high-minded,  and  loyal,  and  .  .  ." 

"  Pious,  with  a  gift  of  prayer,  you  had  better 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     105 

add.  How  blind  you  are,  for  all  your  knowledge 
and  .  .  .  other  qualities.  You  forgot  to  add 
sweet-tempered;  but  perhaps  you  were  coming  to 
that." 

"  No,  I  would  not  say  that,  and  I  am  rather  glad 
you  are  not  gentle," — the  minister  was  very  bold, — 
"  for  you  would  not  be  ...  yourself." 

"  You  had  your  suspicions,  then,  and  are  not  sure 
that  I  am  ready  for  canonising?  Do  you  know  I 
feel  immensely  relieved;  suppose  we  celebrate  this 
confession  by  tea?  Would  you  ring  the  bell,  Mr. 
Egerton  ?  " 

"  There  is  something  I  want  to  talk  about,  and 
as  it's  rather  important,  would  you  mind,  Mrs.  Ark- 
wright,  giving  me  a  few  minutes  first?  Tea  is 
rather  distracting." 

"  Composing,  I  find  it — but  as  you  please ;  is  it 
the  District  Visitors,  or  the  Nurses'  Home,  or  the 
Children's  Holiday,  and  is  it  money  ?  "  Mrs.  Ark- 
wright  for  some  reason  was  very  gracious. 

"  No,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  chapel.  I 
wish  to  speak  about  .  .  .  yourself." 

"  Yes  ?  "  and  she  looked  curiously  at  him. 

"  You  remember  that  day  when  Mr.  Arkwright 
committed  you  to  my  care,  and  I  gave  my  word 
to  .  .  ." 

"  Do  your  best  to  look  after  a  very  troublesome 
woman,"  Mrs.  Arkwright  interposed  hurriedly ;  "  it 
was  a  ...  risky  task,  and  I  thought  you  were 
far  too  hasty,  and  just  a  little  presumptuous,  in 


io6    RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

undertaking  it,  but  you've  been  a  very  lenient  guard- 
ian for  your  age.  Have  I  done  anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  No,  and  you  could  not  at  any  time  in  my  eyes  " 
— Mrs.  Arkwright  made  as  though  she  would  curt- 
sey— "  but  others  might  do  wrong  to  you,  and  I 
have  been  anxiou..  for  some  time. 

"  Mr.  Arkwright  was  afraid  lest  some  unworthy 
man  should  admire  you  or  desire  your  wealth,  and 
.  .  .  marry  you,  and  your  life  be  miserable. 
And  he  wished  me  to  save  you  from  this,  and  I 
promised  to  do  my  best." 

"  Well  ? "  and  her  voice  had  begun  to  freeze. 
"  I  remember  all  that." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  speak  about  such  things,  but 
you  know  that  I  ...  would  do  anything  to 
save  you  pain.  .  .  ." 

"  Go  on,"  and  now  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
minister. 

"  It  came  to  my  ears  and  I  saw  for  myself  that 
one  whom  I  knew  slightly  and  did  not  like  was 
paying  you  attentions,  and  it  might  be,  as  I  also 
heard,  was  favoured  by  you.  So  it  seemed  my  duty 
to  make  enquiries  about  Mr.  Crashaw." 

"And?" 

"  There  is  nothing  against  his  character,  and  I 
have  heard  much  good  of  him — that  he  has  cul- 
tured tastes  and  is  very  well  liked  by  those  who 
know  him ;  personally  we  could  never  be  friends, 
for  various  reasons,  but  he  ...  is  not  un- 
worthy to  be  the  husband  of  ...  a  good 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     107 

woman.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  "  ;  and  the  say- 
ing of  it  was  plainly  very  hard  to  the  minister. 

"  You  recommend  me  to  marry  Mr.  Crashaw, 
if  that  gentleman  should  do  me  the  honour  to  ask 
my  hand,  or  do  you  propose  to  suggest  this  step 
to  him,  so  as  to  complete  your  duty  as  guardian  ?  " 
Mrs.  Arkwright  was  now  standing  and  regarding 
Egerton  with  fierce  scorn. 

"  My  information  seemed  to  me  reliable  " — he 
was  also  standing,  white  and  pained — "  and  I 
thought  it  would  help  you  in  that  case  to  know 
what  I  have  told  you,  when  you  came  to  decide." 

"  If  I  knew  who  told  you  such  falsehoods,  I  would 
never  speak  to  them  again,  and  I  would  make  them 
suffer  for  their  words.  Mr.  Crashaw!  and  it  was 
to  that  cynical,  worldly,  supercilious  tailor's  block 
you  were  to  marry  me.  What  ill  have  I  done 
you?" 

"  God  knows  I  did  not  desire.  ...  I  mean 
.  .  .  do  you  not  see  that  I  tried  to  do  what 
was  right  at  a  cost?  .  .  .  Why  be  so  angry 
with  me?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  really  care  what  any  person 
in  this  town  or  all  Yorkshire  says  about  me,  but 
I  do  care  and  cannot  endure  that  you  should  turn 
against  me,  and  be  content  to  see  me  Crashaw's 
wife  or  any  other  man's."  And  she  drove  the  min- 
ister across  the  room  in  her  wrath — -he  had  never 
seen  her  so  beautiful — till  he  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  and  she  before  him  as  a  lioness  robbed 
of  her  cubs. 


io8    RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

"  It  has  been  my  mistake,  for  I  understand  not 
women,"  he  said,  with  proud  humility.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  and  am  more  than  ever  .  .  . 
your  servant." 

She  looked  at  him  stormily  for  ten  seconds ;  then 
she  turned  away.  ."  If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say, 
you  need  not  come  again  to  this  house." 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     109 


"  You  will  excuse  me  sending  a  verbal  message 
by  the  doctor,  for,  as  you  see,  I  am  past  writing, 
and  .  .  .  the  time  is  short.  I  wanted  to  speak 
'with  you,  Mrs.  Arkwright,  once  before  ...  I 
died."  And  Egerton  thought  of  the  day  she  had 
stood  by  her  husband's  deathbed  as  now  she  stood 
by  his,  only  that  the  nurse  had  left  the  room  and 
there  was  no  third  person  to  be  an  embarrassment. 

"  Do  not  suppose  I  forget  your  words  to  me  the 
last  time  we  met  in  private,"  he  continued,  as  she 
did  not  speak  nor  look  at  him,  beyond  one  swift 
glance  as  she  came  into  the  room ;  "  and  believe  me, 
I  would  not  have  forced  myself  on  you,  nor  would 
I  have  asked  this  favour,  had  it  not  been  that 
.  .  .  I  have  something  of  which  I  must  deliver 
my  soul." 

"  You  are  not  dying ;  you  were  a  strong  man, 
and  a  few  days'  illness  couldn't  ...  be  fatal," 
she  burst  out,  and  it  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Arkwright 
for  once  was  going  to  lose  control  and  fall  a-weep- 
ing.  Then  she  mastered  herself,  and  said  almost 
coldly,  "  Had  I  known  you  were  so  ill,  I  would  have 


no     RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

called  to  inquire;  but  nothing  was  said  of  pneu- 
monia, only  a  bad  cold." 

"  You  forgive  me,  then,  that  ill-judged  interfer- 
ence, Mrs.  Arkwright,  and  anything  else  in  which 
I  have  offended  you  or  failed  in  ...  my 
brother's  part  ?  " 

"  Do  not  speak  like  that  to  me  unless  you  wish 
to  take  revenge;  it  is  I  who  ask  your  pardon  for 
my  evil  temper  and  insolence  that  day,  and  other 
times;  but  you  are  too  .  .  .  good,  else  you 
would  have  understood." 

"  You  did  not,  then,  hate  me,  as  I  supposed  ?  " 
and  his  voice  was  strained  with  eagerness. 

"  When  you  were  prepared  to  approve  my  en- 
gagement to  Mr.  Crashaw?  Yes,  I  did,  and  I 
could  have  struck  you  as  you  bore  witness  to  his 
character — whom  you  detested.  Conscientious  and 
unselfish  ...  on  your  part,  very.  And  yet 
at  the  same  time  I  ...  did  not  hate  you ; 
I  could  have  .  .  .  you  are  a  dull  man,  Mr. 
Egerton,  and  I  am  not  a  saint.  Is  it  milk  you 
drink  ?  "  And  when  she  raised  his  head,  her  hands 
lingered  as  they  had  not  done  before  on  her  hus- 
band's. 

"  Are  you  really  dying  ? "  She  sat  down  and 
looked  at  him,  her  head  between  her  hands.  "  You 
and  I  are,  at  least,  able  to  face  the  situation." 

"  Yes,  without  doubt ;  but  I  am  not  a  martyr  to 
overwork,  or  anything  else;  my  death  is  not  a  sen- 
timental tragedy ;  do  not  let  any  one  speak  of  me  in 


RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH     in 

that  fashion :  I  simply  caught  a  cold  and  did  not 
take  care;  it's  quite  commonplace."  When  he 
smiled  his  face  was  at  its  best,  the  dark  blue  eyes 
having  a  roguish  look  as  of  a  boy. 

Mrs.  Arkwright  leant  back  on  her  chair  and  bit 
her  lower  lip. 

"  This  is  good-bye,  then,  and  our  friendship — 
six  years  long,  isn't  it? — is  over.  Had  I  known 
it  was  to  be  so  short — well,  we  had  not  quar- 
relled." 

"  Not  over,"  and  he  looked  wistfully  at  her ;  "  this 
life  does  not  end  all." 

"  Ah,  you  have  the  old  romantic  faith,  and  one 
would  like  to  share  it,  but  no  one  knows;  this  life 
is  the  only  certainty." 

"  In  a  few  hours,"  he  went  on,  "  I  shall  know, 
and  I  expect  to  see  my  friend  Jacob  Arkwright, 
whom  I  loved,  although  we  only  knew  one  another 
for  three  years,  and  he  ...  will  ask  for  you." 

Mrs.  Arkwright  regarded  Egerton  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"  He  will  ask  how  I  kept  my  trust,  and  I  ... 
will  be  ashamed,  unless  you  hear  my  confession 
and  forgive  me.  For  I  ...  have  sinned 
against  you  and  your  husband." 

"  In  what  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  hard  voice. 

"  God  knows  that  I  had  no  thought  of  you  he 
might  not  have  read  while  he  was  here.  And  after- 
wards for  a  year  I  was  in  heart  your  brother;  and 
then — oh,  how  can  I  say  it  and  look  you  in  the  face, 


ii2     RIGHTEOUS  OVER  MUCH 

who  thought  me  good  and  a  faithful  minister  of 
Christ  ?  "  and  his  eyes  were  large  with  pain  and  sor- 
row. 

"  Say  it,"  she  whispered,  "  say  it  plain ;  you 
must,"  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  in  com- 
mandment. 

"  I  loved  you  as  ...  a  man  loves  a  woman 
whom  he  would  make  his  wife,  till  it  came  to  pass 
that  I  made  excuses  to  visit  you,  till  I  watched  you 
on  the  street,  till  I  longed  for  the  touch  of  your 
hand,  till  I  ...  oh,  the  sin  and  shame — 
thought  of  you  in  the  service  and  ...  at  my 
prayers ;  yet  I  had  been  left  your  guardian  and  had 
promised  to  be  as  a  brother  to  you ;  besides,  nor  was 
this  the  least  of  my  shame,  you  were  rich." 

"  And  now  ?  "     She  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

"  I  have  finally  overcome,  but  only  within  these 
few  months,  and  my  heart  is  at  last  single.  You 
are  to  me  again  my  friend's  wife,  and  I  shall  meet 
him  ...  in  peace,  if  you  forgive  me." 

For  a  few  seconds  nothing  was  heard  but  his 
rapid  breathing,  and  then  she  spoke  with  low,  pas- 
sionate voice. 

"  Your  love  needs  no  forgiveness ;  your  silence 
.  .  .  I  can  never  forgive." 

He  lived  for  two  hours,  and  he  spoke  twice. 
Once  he  thanked  his  nurse  for  her  attentions,  and 
just  before  he  passed  away  she  caught  the  words, 
"  through  much  tribulation  .  .  .  enter  the 
Kingdom  .  .  .  God." 


A   PROBATIONER 


A  PROBATIONER 

One  winter  I  forsook  the  cottage  at  Drumtochty, 
in  spite  of  the  pure  white  snow  and  the  snell,  brac- 
ing wind  from  Ben  Urtach,  and  took  rooms  in 
Edinburgh.  It  was  a  poor  exchange,  for  the  talk 
of  professors  and  advocates,  although  good  enough 
in  its  way,  was  not  to  be  compared  with  the  wisdom 
of  James  Soutar;  but  there  were  more  books  in 
Edinburgh  than  in  the  Glen,  and  it  was  there  that  I 
met  my  probationer.  From  time  to  time  we  passed 
upon  the  stair,  when  he  would  shrink  into  a  landing 
and  apologise  for  his  obstruction,  and  if  in  sheer 
forgetfulness  I  said  "  Fine  day,"  with  the  rain 
beating  on  the  windows,  he  nervously  agreed. 
With  his  suspicion  of  clerical  attire,  and  his  defer- 
ential manner,  he  suggested  some  helot  of  the 
ecclesiastical  world,  whose  chiefs  live  in  purple  and 
fine  linen,  and  whose  subordinates  share  with  tram- 
way men  and  sempstresses  the  honour  of  working 
harder  and  receiving  less  pay  than  any  other  body 
in  the  commonwealth.  By  his  step  I  had  identi- 
fied him  as  the  tenant  of  a  single  room  above  my 
sitting-room,  and  one  wondered  how  any  man 
could  move  so  little  and  so  gently.  If  he  shifted 
a  chair,  it  was  by  stealth,  and  if  in  poking  his  fire 


n6  A  PROBATIONER 

a  coal  dropped  on  the  hearth,  he  abandoned  the 
audacious  attempt. 

One  grew  so  accustomed  to  these  mouse-like 
movements  that  it  came  as  a  shock  when  my 
neighbour  burst  into  activity.  It  was  on  a  Friday 
afternoon  that  he  seemed  to  be  rearranging  his 
furniture  so  as  to  leave  a  clear  passage  from  end 
to  end  of  the  room,  and  then,  after  he  had  adjusted 
the  chairs  and  table  to  his  satisfaction,  he  began 
a  wonderful  exercise.  Sometimes  he  would  pace 
swiftly  backwards  and  forwards  with  a  murmuring 
sound  as  one  repeating  passages  by  rote,  with 
occasional  sudden  pauses,  when  he  refreshed  his 
memory  from  some  quarter.  Sometimes  he  stood 
before  the  table  and  spoke  aloud,  rising  to  a  pitch, 
when  one  could  catch  a  word  or  two,  and  then  he 
would  strike  a  book,  quite  fiercely  for  him,  and 
once  or  twice  he  stamped  his  foot  almost  as  hard 
as  a  child  could.  After  this  outbreak  he  would 
rest  awhile,  and  then  begin  again  on  the  lower  key, 
and  one  knew  when  he  reached  the  height  by  the 
refrain,  "Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus." 
It  was  an  amazing  development,  and  stimulated 
thought. 

"  No,"  explained  our  excellent  landlady,  "  he's 
no  daft,  though  ye  micht  think  sae.  He's  a  minister 
without  a  kirk,  an'  he's  juist  learnin'  his  sermon ; 
but,  Losh  keep  us,  he's  by  ordinar'  the  day. 

"  He's  my  cousin's  son,  ye  see  " — and  Mrs.  Mac- 
farlane  settled  to  historical  detail — "an'  his  mother's 


A  PROBATIONER  117 

a  weedow.  She  focht  to  get  him  through  St. 
Andrew's,  an'  hoo  she  managed  passes  me.  Noo 
he's  what  is  called  a  probationer,  an',  eh,  but  he 
earns  his  livin'  hard. 

"  His  business,"  continued  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  "  is 
to  tak'  the  pulpit  when  a  minister  is  awa'  at  a 
Sacrament  or  on  his  holiday,  and  ae  Sabbath  he 
micht  be  at  Peterhead  and  the  next  at  Wigtown. 
He  gets  his  orders  on  Friday,  an'  he  sets  aff  wi' 
his  bit  bag  on  Saturday,  an'  a  weary  body  he  is 
on  Monday  nicht.  An'  it's  little  he  maks  for  a'  he 
does,  bare  twenty  shillin'  a  week  clear ;  but  naebody 
can  stand  this  colie  shangle  (disturbance)."  For 
above  the  landlady's  exposition  rose  the  proba- 
tioner's voice :  "  Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of 
Damascus." 

What  she  said  to  her  cousin  once  removed  I 
know  not,  but  it  was  not  in  vain,  for  in  the  evening 
this  was  brought  by  the  servant : — 

"  DEAR  SIR, — 

"  It  affords  me  sincere  regret  to  learn  that  you 
have  been  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  your  literary 
avocations  by  sounds  and  movements  emanating 
from  my  room.  They  are  unfortunately  and  un- 
avoidably connected  with  a  new  method  of  pro- 
fessional work  which  I  have  been  advised  to  adopt 
by  experienced  friends.  It  would,  however,  be 
unrighteous  that  one  man  should  hinder  another 
in  his  daily  labour,  and  I  would  be  greatly  obliged 


n8  A  PROBATIONER 

if  you  could  indicate  any  time  of  absence  during 
which  I  might  be  free  to  speak  aloud  and  move  with 
energy  in  my  chamber  without  offence.     Apologis- 
ing for  my  unwitting  annoyance, 
"  I  am, 

".Yours  respectfully, 

"  HIRAM  CLUNAS." 

It  was  written  on  poor  paper  and  a  single  sheet, 
but  the  handwriting  was  that  of  a  scholar,  a  man 
accustomed  to  form  Hebrew  and  Greek  characters, 
and  the  very  flavour  of  pedantry  was  attractive,  so 
that  one  wanted  to  know  the  writer,  and  I  seized 
the  excuse  of  a  personal  answer. 

He  was  quite  unprepared  for  my  coming,  and 
upset  a  Hebrew  lexicon  and  four  German  books 
on  the  Prophets  before  he  could  get  a  chair  in  his 
single  room  below  the  slates ;  nor  had  he  any  small 
talk  to  offer,  but  he  was  ready  enough  to  speak 
about  his  own  work,  and  seemed  anxious  to  explain 
his  recent  departure.  It  also  occurred  to  me  that 
he  wanted  my  judgment. 

"  My  work,  let  me  explain,"  he  said,  hesitatingly, 
"  is  not  pastoral  or  ...  devoted  to  a  particular 
sphere,  since  my  gifts  have  not  yet  .  .  .  com- 
mended themselves  to  a  congregation  after  such 
a  fashion  that  they  were  inclined  to  ...  in 
short,  wished  to  have  me  as  their  minister.  Mine 
is  a  vagum  ministerium.  I  am  what  is  called  a 
probationer,  that  is,  I  have  been  duly  educated  in 


A  PROBATIONER  119 

profane  and  sacred  learning  for  the  holy  ministry, 
and  have  passed  certain  examinations  .  .  . 
without  discredit." 

"  Of  that  I  am  sure,"  I  interpolated  with  sincer- 
ity, whereat  the  probationer  ought  to  have  bowed 
and  replied,  "  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  but 
as  it  was  he  only  blushed  and  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  caught  boasting. 

"  And  then?  "  I  suggested. 

"  It  remains  to  discover  whether  I  am  .  .  . 
fit  for  the  practical  work  of  my  calling — if  it  be, 
indeed,  I  am  called  at  all  .  .  ."  And  here  the 
little  man  came  to  a  halt. 

"  You  are  examined  again,"  I  inquired,  tenta- 
tively, "  or  placed  under  a  chief  for  a  little  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  although  the  latter  would  be  an 
excellent  way — but  it  is  not  for  me  to  criticise  the 
rules  of  my  Church;  if  any  congregation  has  lost 
its  minister,  then  such  as  I,  that  is,  persons  in  a 
state  of  probation,  are  sent  each  Sabbath  to  ... 
preach,  and  then  the  people  choose  the  one  who 
.  .  ."  And  again  Mr.  Clunas  came  to  a  stand 
for  want  of  fitting  words. 

"  Who  comes  out  first  in  the  preaching  compe- 
tition," I  added,  and  in  an  instant  was  sorry. 

"  It  would  ill  become  me  to  put  the  matter 
.  .  .  in  such  a  form,  and  if  I  have  done  so  it 
has  been  an  inadvertence,  and  indeed  I  did  not 
mean  to  complain,  but  rather  to  explain  the  reason 
of  the  noise." 


120  A  PROBATIONER 

"  Please  tell  me  whatever  you  please,  but  it  was 
not  noise,  for  I  heard  some  words.  .  .  ." 

"  The  rivers  of  Damascus  ?  I  feared  so,  sir ;  that 
was  the  climax  or  point  of  repetition — but  I  will 
relate  the  matter  in  order,  with  your  permission. 

"  It  has  been  my  habit,  after  I  have  duly  exam- 
ined a  passage  in  the  original  language  and  the 
light  of  competent  scholars,  and  verified  its  lessons 
by  my  own  reason  and  conscience — collected  the 
raw  material,  if  I  may  so  say — to  commit  the  same 
to  writing  according  to  my  ability,  using  language 
that  can  be  understood  of  the  people,  and  yet  con- 
forming as  far  as  may  be  to  the  Elizabethan 
standard." 

In  my  opinion,  I  indicated,  he  had  done  well. 

"  I  judged  that  I  would  have  your  approval  so 
far,  but  hereafter  comes  in  a  grave  question  of 
expediency,  on  which  I  should  like  your  mind 
as  a  neutral  person  and  one  given  to  literary  pur- 
suits. My  habit  is  farther  to  read  to  the  people 
what  I  have  written  in  a  clear  voice,  and  with  such 
animation  as  is  natural  to  me,  in  the  faith  that 
whatsoever  may  have  been  given  me  by  the 
Spirit  of  Truth  may  be  witnessed  to  the  hearers  by 
the  same  Spirit." 

This  appeared  to  me  a  very  reasonable  method 
and  a  just  hope. 

"  Others,  however,  acting  according  to  their 
nature,  commit  their  message  to  memory,  and  de- 
liver it  to  the  people  with  many  lively  and  engaging 


A  PROBATIONER  121 

gestures,  which  pleases  the  people  and  wins  their 
hearts." 

"  And  so  the  groundlings  prefer  the  wind-bags," 
I  interrupted,  "  and  elect  them  to  be  their  minister." 

"  It  is  not  so  that  I  wished  you  to  infer,"  and 
the  probationer's  voice  was  full  of  reproof,  "  for 
I  trust  my  desire  is  not  to  obtain  a  church,  but  the 
confirmation  of  my  calling  through  the  voice  of 
the  people ;  yet  who  knoweth  his  heart  ?  "  And 
the  probationer  was  much  distressed. 

It  was  only  my  foolish  thought,  I  hastened  to 
explain,  and  besought  him  to  continue. 

"  A  friend  of  ...  much  shrewdness  and,  I 
am  sure,  of  good  intention,  has  spoken  to  me  at 
length  on  my  .  .  .  want  of  favour  with  the 
people,  and  has  pointed  out  that  the  Word  must 
be  placed  before  them  after  a  winsome  fashion." 

"And  so?" 

"  He  urged  me  to  choose  texts  which  could  be 
frequently  repeated  with  effect,  and  so  lodge  their 
idea  in  the  mind  of  the  people,  and  that  I  should 
not  use  any  manuscript,  but  should  employ  certain 
arts  of  oratory,  such  as  beginning  low  and  raising 
the  voice  up  to  a  climax  where  it  would  be  good  to 
repeat  the  text  with  emphasis. 

"As  an  example  and  .  .  .  inducement  he 
dwelt  upon  the  case  of  one  probationer  who  had 
taken  for  his  text,  And  there  shall  be  no  more  sea/ 
whereon  he  composed  a  single  sermon,  to  which 
he  devoted  much  pains.  This  he  delivered  daily 


122  A  PROBATIONER 

for  some  hours  in  his  chamber,  and  at  the  end  of 
each  paragraph  said  in  a  loud  voice,  'And  there 
shall  be  no  more  sea.'  He  was  elected  to  three 
churches  within  a  short  space,"  concluded  Mr. 
Clunas. 

"  You  have  therefore  thought  it  desirable  to 
amend  your  habit." 

"  Well,  so  far,"  and  the  probationer  was  much 
embarrassed,  "  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  handle 
what  my  adviser  called  '  repeaters,'  such  as  that 
I  have  mentioned,  for  my  mind  does  not  incline 
to  them ;  but  as  I  had  been  labouring  the  tendency 
to  prefer  meretricious  and  sensational  religion  to 
that  which  is  austere  and  pure  from  the  text,  'Are 
not  Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus,  better 
than  all  the  waters  of  Israel  ? '  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  might  for  once  .  .  .  make  trial  .  .  .  that 
is,  use  the  words  Abana  and  Pharpar  as  a  symbol 
to  ...  fix  the  truth,  as  it  were.  It  is  very 
laborious  and  .  .  .  not  grateful  to  me.  Do 
you  think  that  ...  I  am  doing  right?" 
and  my  probationer  fixed  me  with  an  anxious 
eye. 

"  Quite  so,  sir,  I  understand  perfectly,"  as  I  was 
making  a  blundering  effort  to  suggest  that  Provi- 
dence hardly  intended  that  my  probationer  should 
go  round  the  country  like  a  showman  with  "  re- 
peaters." "  You  have  confirmed  my  own  idea 
and  .  .  .  delivered  my  feet  from  falling,  for 
I  had  come  nearly  to  unreality  in  a  holy  thing, 


A  PROBATIONER  123 

besides  ridding  me  from  an  irksome  task,"  and  he 
regarded  the  sheets — the  "  rivers  "  standing  out 
in  half  text — with  strong  dislike. 

"  There  is  another  matter,"  he  continued,  "  on 
which  I  would  fain  have  your  mind,  since  you  have 
shown  so  much  sympathy.  It  is  now,  I  regret  to 
say,  the  custom  for  a  person  in  my  position,  that 
is,  on  probation,  to  print  a  number  of  certificates 
from  influential  persons  and  send  them  to  ... 
the  authorities  in  a  vacant  church.  This  I  have 
refused  to  do;  but  there  is  a  special  reason  why  I 
strongly  desire  to  be  settled  .  .  .  not  quite 
unworthy,  I  hope,"  and  a  faint  flush  came  to  the 
probationer's  face. 

"  I  understand  " — for  it  was  natural  to  suppose 
that  he  was  engaged,  as  many  in  his  circumstances 
are,  which  grows  into  a  pathetic  tragedy  as  a  girl 
waits  for  long  years  till  her  betrothed  is  approved 
in  his  work  and  can  offer  her  a  home — "  and  you 
have  got  your  certificates." 

"  A  few,  and  it  may  be  that  I  could  secure  more ; 
here  is  one  which  ...  I  value  deeply  .  .  . 
count  above  gold.  It's  from  Prof.  Carphin ;  you 
know  what  he  has  done,  of  course. 

"  Hebrew  scholar  " — the  probationer  rose  from 
his  chair  and  paced  the  floor — "  that  is  inadequate, 
quite  inadequate ;  there  are  many  Hebrew  scholars, 
thank  God,  but  Prof.  Carphin  has  gone  deeper. 
Why,  sir,  he  has  made  a  race  of  scholars,  and 
changed  the  face  of  theological  thought  in  Scot- 


124  A  PROBATIONER 

land ;  he  is  the  modern  Erasmus  of  our  land,"  and 
the  probationer  was  very  warm. 

"  This  is  what  he  has  written  of  me,  and  it  is 
superfluous  to  say  that  from  such  a  man  this  testi- 
mony is  the  highest  praise ;  I  ought  hardly  to  show 
such  words,  but  you  will  not  misjudge  me." 

"  I  beg  to  certify  that  Mr.  Hiram  Clunas,  Master 
of  Arts  and  Bachelor  of  Divinity,  late  Fellow  of 
this  College,  is  in  my  judgment  fully  competent  to 
expound  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  after  an  accurate 
and  spiritual  fashion  to  any  body  of  intelligent 
people. 

"  ZECHARIAH  CARPHIN, 

"  D.D.,  LL.D. 
"  CALVIN  COLLEGE,  EDINBURGH." 

"  Pardon  me,  it  is  my  foolishness,  but  you  notice 
'  fully ' ;  this  extremity  of  language  is,  I  need  not 
say,  undeserved,  but  that  Dr.  Carphin  should  have 
written  it  is  ...  a  compensation  for  many 
little  disappointments,"  and  the  probationer's  voice 
trembled. 

"  No,  it  will  not  be  of  material  service  in  the  way 
of  gaining  me  a  hearing,  for  it  is  a  .  .  .  moral 
disgrace  to  my  Church  that  the  word  of  this  eminent 
man  carries  little  weight  with  .  .  .  committees 
and  such  like,  and  that  many  people  in  this  Univer- 
sity city  do  not  know  his  face  when  he  walks  along 
Princes  Street. 


A  PROBATIONER  125 

"  This  is  from  another  kind  of  man,  who  is  very 
.  .  .  acceptable  as  a  preacher,  and  has  much 
influence  ...  in  vacancies;  it  was  an  indis- 
cretion, I  fear,  to  have  asked  him  for  ...  a 
certificate,  as  he  has  only  seen  me  once;  but  when 
one  is  pressed  he  is  not  always  wise." 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  Rev. 
Hiram  Clunas  for  a  considerable  time,  and  have 
much  satisfaction  in  recommending  him  to  the 
favourable  consideration  of  selection  committees 
of  vacant  congregations.  He  is  a  ripe  scholar,  a 
profound  divine,  an  eloquent  preacher,  a  faithful 
pastor,  an  experienced  Christian,  with  an  attractive 
and  popular  manner,  and  general  knowledge  of 
a  varied  and  rich  character.  Any  congregation 
securing  Mr.  Clunas  is  certain  to  increase  both  in 
number  and  finance,  and  I  anticipate  for  this  tal- 
ented young  minister  a  future  of  remarkable  and 
rapid  success. 

"MACDUFF     MACLEEAR,     D.D." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  curious  name,  and  I  believe 
was,  so  to  say  adopted.  Originally  he  was  James 
MacLeear — MacLeear  is  his  own — and  some  years 
ago  he  inserted  MacDuff,  I  am  credibly  informed, 
and  now  he  has  dropped  his  Christian  name. 

"  The  reason  for  the  change,  it  is  understood,  is 
for  purposes  of  advertisement  in  the  public  prints, 
where,  I  am  informed,  ordinary  names  such  as 


126  A  PROBATIONER 

James  or  John  are  less  .  .  .  striking,  so  that 
preachers  who  desire  to  appeal  to  the  people  use 
two  surnames,  as  it  were;  it  seems  to  me  doubtful 
in  ethics,  but  one  must  not  be  ready  to  judge  his 
neighbour  in  such  straits. 

"  No,  his  degree  is  not  from  a  Scots  University, 
but  from  a  seat  of  learning  in  a  Western  State  of 
America — Auroraville,  I  think  it  is  called,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  Yes,  he  wrote  a  little  book  on  the  Maid- 
ens of  the  Bible  of  a  popular  cast. 

"  You  agree  with  me  that  no  one  could  use  such 
a  testimony  with  .  .  .  self-respect,  and  I  have 
resolved  to  print  no  certificates  or  make  any  per- 
sonal appeal ;  but  I  do  not  regret  the  effort  I  made, 
for  it  has  gained  me  the  Professor's  letter,"  and 
the  probationer  folded  up  the  letter  carefully  and 
placed  it  in  his  desk. 

"  I  fear  that  you  must  think  me  charged  with 
vain  ambition,  but  .  .  .  it  is  not  for  my  own 
sake." 

From  time  to  time  we  spent  an  hour  together, 
and  he  told  me  of  his  journeys,  many  and  toilsome. 

"  Of  course  I  am  not  sent  to  supply  in  cities,  for 
they  require  men  of  greater  .  .  .  experience; 
my  allotment  is  always  in  the  country,  and  I  like 
that  better. 

"  When  my  station  comes  near  I  begin  to  look 
out  of  the  window  and  see  whether  the  district  is 
level  or  hilly — for  though  climbing  tries  one  a  little, 
one  has  a  fair  view  to  refresh  the  soul,  and  I  like 


A  PROBATIONER  127 

woods  because  of  the  mystery  and  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves. 

"  Sometimes  a  farmer  will  meet  me  with  a  dog- 
cart— and  there  are  no  men  so  kind  as  farmers — 
but  mostly  I  walk,  and  that  is  nothing  unless  the 
distance  be  far  and  it  be  raining  heavily.  No,  it 
may  be  a  weakness  of  the  flesh,  but  I  do  not  like 
a  night  walk,  and  yet  to  see  the  squares  of  light 
in  the  cottage  windows,  flashing  across  a  glen  or 
breaking  out  of  a  wood,  is  very  pleasing." 

One  snowy  morning  in  February  he  came  into 
my  room  in  evident  excitement,  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"  You  have  taken  such  an  interest  in  my  affairs 
that  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  .  .  . 
I  have  received  a  letter  informing  me  that  I  am 
on  the  short  leet  for  Tilliegask  .  .  .  just  two, 
and  I  am  one  .  .  .  and  I  am  to  preach  next 
Sabbath  .  .  .  and  the  farmer  with  whom  I 
stayed  has  sent  a  very  encouraging  letter." 

During  the  week  the  probationer  was  much  tried 
on  a  question  of  conscience,  whether  he  ought  to 
act  on  a  suggestion  of  his  friend  at  Tilliegask. 

"  It  happens,"  he  explained  to  me,  "  that  the 
people  at  Tilliegask  are  very  conservative  in  their 
views  of  the  Bible,  while,  as  you  are  aware,  I  have 
been  led  to  accept  certain  modern  conclusions 
regarding  the  history  of  the  books,  and  my  good 
friend  desires  that  I  should  .  .  .  make  no 
allusion  to  them  in  my  discourse. 


128  A  PROBATIONER 

"  Now,"  went  on  the  probationer,  "  it  was  not 
my  intention  to  do  so,  but  after  this  advice  am  I 
not  bound  in  conscience  to  indicate,  simply  to 
indicate,  my  position,  that  they  may  not  be  deceived, 
and  that  I  may  not  obtain  a  church  by  guile  ? " 
And  he  read  to  me  the  sentence,  which  I  make  no 
doubt  no  one  understood,  but  which  was  to  Mr. 
Clunas  a  great  relief.  He  came  home  from  Tillie- 
gask  in  high  spirits,  and  speculated  every  evening 
on  his  chances  as  against  the  other  man  who  was 
to  preach  on  Sabbath. 

"  No,  he  was  not  what  you  would  call  a  scholar," 
and  then  the  probationer  laughed  aloud — a  rare 
occurrence ;  "  well  it  was  a  translation  in  the  Latin 
class ;  he  rendered  adhuc  juvenis  as  '  a  still  youth/ 
which  was  much  tasted,  and  others,  too,  as  remark- 
able ;  but  it  is  not  generous  to  remember  such 
.  .  .  failings." 

The  good  man  was  indeed  so  distressed  by  this 
disparaging  allusion  to  his  rival  that  he  searched 
his  heart  for  the  sins  of  pride  and  jealousy,  which 
with  envy  and  worldliness,  he  confessed  to  me, 
constantly  beset  him.  He  also  impressed  upon  me 
that  although  Mr.  Tosh  might  not  be  a  scholar  in 
the  academic  sense,  yet  he  had  such  gifts  of  speech 
that  he  would  be  an  excellent  minister  for  Tillie- 
gask  if  the  choice  of  that  secluded  place  should 
fall  on  Tosh.  But  the  probationer  waited  anxiously 
for  the  first  post  on  Tuesday,  which  would  give 
the  result,  and  I  was  only  less  anxious. 


A  PROBATIONER  129 

When  he  did  not  come  down  with  tidings,  and 
only  the  faintest  sound  came  from  his  room  as  of 
a  chair  occasionally  shifted  before  the  fire,  I  went 
up,  and  found  my  friend  very  low  and  two  open 
letters  on  the  table. 

"  It  has  not  been  .  .  .  God's  will,"  and  he 
signed  that  I  should  read  the  letters.  One  was 
from  the  ecclesiastical  functionary  who  presides 
over  elections  and  church  courts,  and  who  is  called 
by  the  suggestive  name  of  "  moderator  " ;  that  the 
vote  had  been  fifty-two  for  Mr.  Clunas  and  ninety- 
three  for  Mr.  Tosh ;  that  Mr.  Tosh  had  been  elected ; 
that  on  his,  the  moderator's  appeal,  the  minority 
had  "  fallen  in ; "  that  he,  the  moderator,  was  sure 
that  Mr.  Clunas  would  be  pleased  to  know  that 
his  supporters  had  shown  so  good  a  spirit,  and  that 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  Great  Head  of  the 
Church  had  something  in  store  for  His  servant; 
and  that  in  the  event  of  Mr.  Clunas  applying  in 
another  vacancy  he,  the  moderator,  would  be 
willing  to  give  him  a  strong  certificate  as  to  the 
impression  he,  Mr.  Clunas,  had  produced  on  the 
congregation  of  Tilliegask.  The  second  letter  was 
from  Wester  Tilliegask,  my  friend's  host,  who  was 
full  of  genuine  regret  that  Mr.  Clunas  had  not  won 
the  poll,  who  explained  that  up  to  Sabbath  his 
chance  was  excellent,  but  that  Mr.  Tosh  had  carried 
all  before  him  by  a  sermon  on  "  A  Rainbow  round 
about  the  Throne,"  with  very  fetching  illustrations 
and  quotations — Mr.  Tosh  had  also  won  several 


ijo  A  PROBATIONER 

votes  by  shaking  hands  with  the  people  at  the  door, 
and  ingeniously  giving  it  to  be  understood  that  his 
idea  of  pastoral  duty  was  to  visit  his  congregation 
four  times  a  year;  that,  notwithstanding  all  these 
Tosh  attractions,  he,  Wester  Tilliegask,  would  have 
preferred  Mr.  Clunas;  and  that  as  there  was  a 
rumour  that  the  minister  of  Ballengeich  would  soon 
need  a  colleague,  he  would  arrange  through  his, 
Wester  Tilliegask's,  wife's  brother  that  Mr.  Clunas 
should  have  a  hearing.  He  added  that  a  certificate 
from  MacDuff  MacLeear,  placing  Mr.  Tosh  a  little 
lower  than  St.  Paul,  had  told. 

The  probationer  was  very  brave  and  generous, 
blaming  no  one,  and  acknowledging  that  Tosh 
would  be  a  more  suitable  man  for  Tilliegask,  but 
it  was  evident  he  was  hardly  hit. 

"  It  was  not  to  escape  the  unrest  of  this  life,"  he 
said,  "  nor  for  the  position,  nor  even  for  the  sanc- 
tion of  my  work;  it  was  for  the  sake  of  one  who 
.  .  .  has  waited  long  to  see  me  an  ordained 
minister.  She  may  not  ...  be  spared  much 
longer;  my  mother  is  now  nearly  seventy."  So 
it  was  no  sweetheart,  but  his  mother  of  whom  he 
thought. 

"  If  I  had  been  elected,  I  had  purposed  to  start 
this  forenoon  and  carry  the  news  myself,  and  I 
imagined  the  scene.  I  never  could  reach  the  cot- 
tage unseen,  for  there  is  a  window  in  the  gable 
which  commands  the  road,  so  that  mother  is  ever 
waiting  at  the  garden  gate  for  me. 


A  PROBATIONER  131 

"  Do  not  count  me  foolish,  but  I  was  to  pretend 
that  I  had  just  come  to  visit  her  for  a  day,  and  then 
ask  her  how  she  would  like  to  leave  the  cottage 
and  live  in  a  manse. 

"  By  this  time  she  would  jalouse  something — 'tis 
her  word — but  I  would  tell  nothing,  only  expatiate 
on  the  manse  and  her  room  in  it,  and  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  she  would  suddenly  throw  her  arms  round 
my  neck.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  sir;  I  will  come 
down  in  the  evening,  if  you  please." 

Before  evening  he  was  hurrying  down  to  the 
cottage,  for  after  all  he  had  to  go  to  his  mother, 
and  when  he  came  back  next  Monday  she  was  dead 
and  buried. 

"  Your  sympathy  is  very  grateful,"  as  we  sat 
together,  "  and  it  helps  me,  but  I  think  my  heart  is 
.  .  .  broken;  although  I  had  to  live  in  Edin- 
burgh in  order  to  accomplish  my  railway  journeys, 
and  we  only  saw  one  another  at  intervals,  we  were 
all  in  all  to  one  another.  .  .  . 

"  There  were  things  passed  between  us  I  cannot 
tell,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  a  mother's  death-bed 
is  a  holy  place;  but  she  knew  that  I  had  lost 
Tilliegask,  and  .  .  .  she  was  not  cast  down,  as 
I  was  for  her  sake. 

" '  Dinna  lose  heart,  Hiram,'  she  said,  her  hand 
in  mine,  '  for  my  faith  will  be  justified ;  when  I 
gave  ye  to  the  Lord  the  day  your  father  died  I  was 
sure,  a'  through  the  fecht  o'  education  I  was  sure, 
an'  when  you  got  your  honours  I  was  sure,  an* 


132  A  PROBATIONER 

when  you  got  no  kirk  I  was  still  as  sure,  and  now 
my  eyes  are  clear,  an'  I  see  that  God  has  savit  you 
for  a  work  that  hath  not  entered  into  my  heart/  and 
she  blessed  me.  .  .  ." 

From  that  day  he  began  to  fail,  and  although 
he  struggled  to  fulfil  preaching  engagements,  he 
had  at  last  to  give  up  public  work.  But  he  toiled 
harder  than  ever  at  the  Semitic  languages. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  am  deceiving  myself  with  vain 
hopes,"  he  explained  to  me  one  day,  "  for  I  know 
full  well  that  I  am  dying,  but  it  seemeth  good  that 
whatsoever  talent  I  have  should  be  cultivated  to 
the  end. 

"  The  future  life  is  veiled,  and  speculation  is  vain, 
but  language  must  be  used,  and  they  who  have 
mastered  the  ancient  roots  will  be  of  some  service; 
it  is  all  I  can  offer,  and  I  must  give  of  my  best." 

The  morning  he  died  I  looked  over  his  few  affairs 
and  balanced  his  accounts,  which  were  kept  in  a 
small  pass-book,  his  poor  fees  on  one  side  and  his 
slender  expenses  on  the  other  to  a  halfpenny. 

"  The  expenditure  may  seem  heavy  the  last  few 
journeys,  but  my  strength  failed  by  the  way,  and 
I  was  unable  to  walk  to  my  destination,  but  there 
may  still  be  enough  at  the  end  of  the  week  for  what 
has  to  be  done. 

"There  will  be  £9  15^.  6d.  when  all  is  paid. 

"  With  the  sale  of  my  books  it  will  suffice,  for 
I  have  carefully  enquired,  to  buy  a  grave  and  de- 
fray the  cost  of  burial.  It  is  not  possible  to  be 


A  PROBATIONER  133 

buried  beside  my  mother,  for  our  ground  is  full, 
so  let  me  lie  where  the  sun  is  shining  on  the  Grange 
Cemetery." 

Soon  after  his  mind  wandered,  and  I  gathered 
he  was  in  the  vestry  of  Tilliegask  Kirk. 

"  Lord  be  merciful  to  me  and  remember  my 
infirmities  .  .  .  deliver  Thy  servant  from  the 
fear  of  man  and  all  doubleness  of  heart  .  .  . 
give  me  grace  to  declare  Thy  truth  and  to  set  Thee 
before  me  .  .  .  bless  my  mother  and  hear  her 
prayers.  .  .  ." 

After  a  little  while  he  began  to  preach,  but  we 
could  make  nothing  of  the  words  till  he  suddenly 
stopped  and  raised  himself  in  the  bed. 

"  Thou,  Lord,"  he  cried,  with  great  astonishment, 
"  hearing  me  ...  Forgive  ...  I  am  not 
worthy  to  declare  Thy  Gospel.  .  .  ." 

What  was  said  by  the  Master  none  of  us  heard, 
but  the  astonishment  passed  into  joy,  and  the  light 
thereof  still  touched  and  made  beautiful  his  face  as 
the  probationer  fell  on  sleep. 

It  was  a  spring  day  when  we  laid  his  body  to  rest, 
and  any  one  who  cares  can  find  his  grave,  because 
a  weeping  willow  hangs  over  it,  and  this  is  the 
inscription  on  the  stone : 

HIRAM  CLUNAS, 
Probationer. 

"  It  is  a  very  small  thing  that  I  should  be  judged  of 
man's  judgment." 


A    GOVERNMENT    OFFICIAL 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

Never  had  I  met  any  man  so  methodical  in 
his  habits,  so  neat  in  his  dress,  so  accurate  in 
speech,  so  precise  in  manner  as  my  fellow-lodger. 
When  he  took  his  bath  in  the  morning  I  knew 
it  was  half-past  seven,  and  when  he  rang  for  hot 
water  that  it  was  a  quarter  to  eight.  Until  a 
quarter-past  he  moved  about  the  room  in  his  slow, 
careful  dressing,  and  then  everything  was  quiet 
next  door  till  half-past  eight,  when  the  low  mur- 
mur of  the  Lord's  Prayer  concluded  his  devotions. 
Two  minutes  later  he  went  downstairs — if  he  met 
a  servant  one  could  hear  him  say  "  Good  morning  " 
— and  read  his  newspaper — he  seldom  had  letters — 
till  nine,  when  he  rang  for  breakfast.  Twenty-past 
nine  he  went  upstairs  and  changed  his  coat,  and  he 
spent  five  minutes  in  the  lobby  selecting  a  pair  of 
gloves,  brushing  his  hat,  and  making  a  last  survey 
for  a  speck  of  dust.  One  glove  he  put  on  opposite 
the  hat-stand,  and  the  second  on  the  doorstep,  and 
when  he  touched  the  pavement  you  might  have  set 
your  watch  by  nine-thirty.  Once  he  was  in  the 
lobby  at  five  and  twenty  minutes  to  ten,  distressed 
and  flurried. 


138  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

"  I  cut  my  chin  slightly  when  shaving,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  and  the  wound  persists  in  bleeding.  It 
has  an  untidy  appearance,  and  a  drop  of  blood  might 
fall  on  a  letter." 

The  walk  that  morning  was  quite  broken,  and 
before  reaching  the  corner,  he  had  twice  examined 
his  chin  with  a  handkerchief,  and  shaken  his  head 
as  one  whose  position  in  life  was  now  uncertain. 

"  It  is  nothing  in  itself,"  he  said  afterwards, 
with  an  apologetic  allusion  to  his  anxiety,  "  and 
might  not  matter  to  another  man.  But  any  little 
misadventure — a  yesterday's  collar  or  a  razor  cut, 
or  even  an  inky  finger — would  render  me  helpless 
in  dealing  with  people.  They  would  simply  look 
at  the  weak  spot,  and  one  would  lose  all  authority. 
Some  of  the  juniors  smile  when  I  impress  on  them 
to  be  very  careful  about  their  dress — quiet,  of 
course,  as  becomes  their  situation,  but  unobjection- 
able. With  more  responsibility  they  will  see  the 
necessity  of  such  details.  I  will  remember  your 
transparent  sticking-plaster — a  most  valuable  sug- 
gestion." 

His  name  was  Frederick  Augustus  Perkins;  so 
ran  the  card  he  left  on  my  table  a  week  after  I 
settled  in  the  next  rooms,  and  the  problem  of  his 
calling  gradually  became  a  standing  vexation.  It 
fell  under  the  class  of  conundrums,  and  one  re- 
membered from  childhood  that  it  is  mean  to  be 
told  the  answer,  so  I  could  not  say  to  Mister  Per- 
kins— for  it  was  characteristic  of  the  prim  little 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL    139 

man  that  no  properly  constituted  person  could  have 
said  Perkins — 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  your  line  of  things  ?  "  or 
any  more  decorous  rendering  of  my  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Holmes,  who  was  as  a  mother  to  Mr. 
Perkins  and  myself,  as  well  as  two  younger  men 
of  literary  pursuits  and  irregular  habits,  had  a  gift 
of  charming  irrelevance,  and  was  able  to  combine 
allusions  to  Mr.  Perkins'  orderly  life  and  the  ama- 
tory tendencies  of  a  new  cook  in  a  mosaic  of  en- 
thralling interest. 

"  No,  Betsy  Jane  has  'ad  her  notice  and  goes 
this  day  week;  not  that  her  cookin's  bad,  but 
her  brothers  don't  know  when  to  leave.  One  was 
'ere  no  later  than  last  night,  though  if  he  was  her 
born  brother,  'e  'ad  a  different  father  and  mother, 
or  my  name  ain't  'Olmes.  '  Your  brother,  Betsy 
Jane,'  says  I,  '  ought  not  to  talk  in  a  strange  'ouse 
on  family  affairs  till  eleven  o'clock.' 

" '  'E  left  at  'alf-past  ten,  punctual,'  says  she, 
looking  as  hinnocent  as  a  child,  '  for  I  'card  Mr. 
Perkins  go  up  to  'is  room  as  I  was  lettin'  Jim  out.' 

"  '  Betsy  Jane,'  I  says,  quite  calm,  '  where  do  you 
expeck  to  go  to  as  doesn't  know  wot  truth  is  ? '  for 
Mr.  Perkins  leaves  'is  room  has  the  'all  clock  starts 
on  eleven,  and  'e's  in  'is  bedroom  at  the  last  stroke. 
If  she  'adn't  brought  in  Mr.  Perkins  she  might  'ave 
deceived  me,  gettin'  old  and  not  bein'  so  quick  in  my 
hearing  as  I  was ;  but  that  settled  her. 

"  'Alf-past,"  went  on  Mrs,  Holmes,  scornfully ; 


140   A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

"  and  'im  never  varied  two  minutes  the  last  ten 
years,  except  one  night  'e  fell  asleep  in  'is  chair, 
being  bad  with  hinfluenza. 

"  For  a  regular  single  gentleman  as  rises  in  the 
morning  and  goes  out,  and  comes  in  and  takes 
'is  dinner,  and  goes  to  bed  like  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  I've  never  seen  'is  equal;  an'  it's  five- 
and-twenty-years  since  'Olmes  died,  'avin'  a  bad 
liver  through  takin'  gin  for  rheumatics;  an'  Liz- 
beth  Peevey  says  to  me,  '  Take  lodgers,  Jemima ; 
not  that  they  pays  for  the  trouble,  but  it  'ill  keep 
an  'ouse.'  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Perkins'  business ; "  it  was  shabby,  but 
the  temptation  came  as  a  way  of  escape  from  the 
flow  of  Mrs.  Holmes'  autobiography ;  "  now  that 
I  couldn't  put  a  name  on,  for  why,  'e  never  speaks 
about  'is  affairs ;  just  '  Good  evening,  Mrs.  'Olmes ; 
I'll  take  fish  for  breakfast  to-morrow ;'  no  more  than 
that,  or  another  blanket  on  'is  bed  on  the  first  of 

November,    for   it's   by    days,    not    cold,    'e    goes. 
» 

It  was  evident  that  I  must  solve  the  problem  for 
myself. 

Mr.  Perkins  could  not  be  a  city  man,  for  in  the 
hottest  June  he  never  wore  a  white  waistcoat,  nor 
had  he  the  swelling  gait  of  one  who  made  an  occa- 
sional coup  in  mines,  and  it  went  without  saying 
that  he  did  not  write;  a  man  who  went  to  bed  at 
eleven,  and  whose  hair  made  no  claim  to  distinc- 
tion. One's  mind  fell  back  on  the  idea  of  law — 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL   141 

conveyancing  seemed  probable — but  his  face  lacked 
sharpness,  and  the  alternative  of  confidential  clerk 
to  a  firm  of  drysalters  was  contradicted  by  an  air 
of  authority  that  raised  observations  on  the  weather 
to  the  level  of  a  state  document.  The  truth  came 
upon  me — a  flash  of  inspiration — as  I  saw  Mr.  Per- 
kins coming  home  one  evening.  The  black  frock 
coat  and  waistcoat,  dark  grey  trousers,  spotless 
linen,  high,  old-fashioned  collar,  and  stiff  stock, 
were  a  symbol,  and  could  only  mean  one  profession. 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Perkins,"  for  this  was  all  one 
now  required  to  know,  "  are  you  Income  Tax  or 
Stamps  ?  " 

"  Neither,  although  my  duty  makes  me  familiar 
with  every  department  in  the  Civil  Service.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be,"  and  he  cleared  his  throat  with 
dignity,  "  a  first-class  clerk  in  the  Schedule  Office. 

"  Our  work,"  he  explained  to  me,  "  is  very  im- 
portant, and  in  fact  .  .  .  vital  to  the  adminis- 
tration of  affairs.  The  efficiency  of  practical  gov- 
ernment depends  on  the  accuracy  of  the  forms  is- 
sued, and  every  one  is  composed  in  our  office. 

"  No,  that  is  a  common  mistake,"  in  reply  to 
my  shallow  remark ;  "  the  departments  do  not  draw 
up  their  own  forms,  and  in  fact  they  are  not  fit  for 
such  work.  They  send  us  a  memorandum  of  what 
their  officials  wish  to  ask,  and  we  put  it  into  shape. 

"  It  requires  long  experience  and,  I  may  say, 
some  .  .  .  ability  to  compose  a  really  credit- 
able schedule,  one  that  will  bring  out  every  point 


142  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

clearly  and  exhaustively — in  fact,  I  have  ventured 
to  call  it  a  science  " — here  Mr.  Perkins  allowed  him- 
self to  smile — "  and  it  might  be  defined  Schedul- 
ology. 

"  Yes,  to  see  a  double  sheet  of  foolscap  divided 
up  into  some  twenty-four  compartments,  each  with 
a  question  and  a  blank  space  for  the  answer  is  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye,  very  pleasing  indeed. 

"  What  annoys  one,"  and  Mr.  Perkins  became 
quite  irritable,  "  is  to  examine  a  schedule  after  it 
has  been  filled  and  to  discover  how  it  has  been 
misused — simply  mangled. 

"  It  is  not  the  public  simply  who  are  to  blame ; 
they  are,  of  course,  quite  hopeless,  and  have  an 
insane  desire  to  write  their  names  all  over  the  paper, 
with  family  details;  but  members  of  the  Civil  Ser- 
vice abuse  the  most  admirable  forms  that  ever  came 
out  of  our  office. 

"  Numerous  ?  Yes,  naturally  so ;  and  as  gov- 
ernmental machinery  turns  on  schedules  they  will 
increase  every  year.  Could  you  guess,  now,  the 
number  of  different  schedules  under  our  charge?" 

"  Several  hundred,  perhaps." 

Mr.  Perkins  smiled  with  much  complacency. 
"  Sixteen  thousand  four  hundred  and  four,  besides 
temporary  ones  that  are  only  used  in  emergencies. 
One  department  has  now  reached  twelve  hundred 
and  two ;  it  has  been  admirably  organised,  and  its 
secretary  could  tell  you  the  subject  of  every  form. 

"  Well,  it  does  not  become  me  to  boast,  but  I 


have  had  the  honour  of  contributing  two  hundred 
and  twenty  myself,  and  have  composed  forty-two 
more  that  have  not  yet  been  accepted. 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  admitted,  with  much  modesty, 
"  I  have  kept  copies  of  the  original  drafts,"  and 
he  showed  me  a  bound  volume  of  his  works. 

"  An  author  ?  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so," 
and  Mr.  Perkins  seemed  much  pleased  with  the 
idea,  twice  smiling  to  himself  during  the  evening, 
and  saying  as  we  parted,  "  It's  my  good  fortune  to 
have  a  large  and  permanent  circulation." 

All  November  Mr.  Perkins  was  engaged  with 
what  he  hoped  would  be  one  of  his  greatest  suc- 
cesses. 

"  It's  a  sanitation  schedule  for  the  Education 
Department,  and  is,  I  dare  to  say,  nearly  perfect. 
It  has  eighty-three  questions  on  every  point,  from 
temperature  to  drains,  and  will  present  a  complete 
view  of  the  physical  condition  of  primary  schools. 

"  You  have  no  idea,"  he  continued,  "  what  a  fight 
I  have  had  with  our  Head  to  get  it  through — eight 
drafts,  each  one  costing  three  days'  labour — but 
now  he  has  passed  it. 

"  '  Perkins,'  he  said,  '  this  is  the  most  exhaustive 
schedule  you  have  ever  drawn  up,  and  I'm  proud 
it's  come  through  the  hands  of  the  drafting  sub- 
department.  Whether  I  can  approve  it  as  Head  of 
the  publishing  sub-department  is  very  doubtful.' ': 

"  Do  you  mean  that  the  same  man  would  approve 
your  paper  in  one  department  to-day  and  .  .  ." 


144  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

"  Quite  so.  It's  a  little  difficult  for  an  outsider 
to  appreciate  the  perfect  order — perhaps  I  might 
say  symmetry — of  the  Civil  Service,"  and  Mr.  Per- 
kins spoke  with  a  tone  of  condescension  as  to  a  little 
child.  "  The  Head  goes  himself  to  the  one  sub- 
department  in  the  morning  and  to  the  other  in  the 
afternoon,  and  he  acts  with  absolute  impartiality. 

"  Why,  sir," — Mr.  Perkins  began  to  warm  and 
grow  enthusiastic, — "  I  have  received  a  letter  from 
the  other  sub-department,  severely  criticising  a  draft 
he  had  highly  commended  in  ours  two  days  before, 
and  I  saw  his  hand  in  the  letter  .  .  .  distinctly ; 
an  able  review,  too,  very  able  indeed. 

"  '  Very  well  put,  Perkins,'  he  said  to  me  him- 
self ;  '  they've  found  the  weak  points ;  we  must 
send  an  amended  draft ; '  and  so  we  did,  and  got 
a  very  satisfactory  reply.  It  was  a  schedule  about 
swine  fever,  972  in  the  department  of  Agriculture. 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  it  in  public  cir- 
culation when  on  my  holidays." 

"  Does  your  Head  sign  the  letters  addressed  to 
himself?"' 

"  Certainly ;  letters  between  departments  are  al- 
ways signed  by  the  chief  officer."  Mr.  Perkins 
seemed  to  have  found  another  illustration  of  public 
ignorance,  and  recognised  his  duty  as  a  missionary 
of  officialism.  "  It  would  afford  me  much  pleasure 
to  give  you  any  information  regarding  our  excellent 
system,  which  has  been  slowly  built  up  and  will 
repay  study;  but  you  will  excuse  me  this  evening, 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL  145 

as  I  am  indisposed — a  tendency  to  shiver  which  an- 
noyed me  in  the  office  to-day." 

Next  morning  I  rose  half  an  hour  late,  as  Mr. 
Perkins  did  not  take  his  bath,  and  was  not  sur- 
prised when  Mrs.  Holmes  came  to  my  room,  over- 
flowing with  concern  and  disconnected  speech. 

"  'E's  that  regular  in  'is  ways,  that  when  'Annah 
Mariar  says  'is  water's  at  'is  door  at  eight  o'clock, 
I  went  up  that  'urried  that  I  couldn't  speak;  and 
I  'ears  him  speaking  to  'isself,  which  is  not  what 
you  would  expect  of  him,  he  being  the  quietest 
gentleman  as  ever  .  .  ." 

"Is  Mr.  Perkins  ill,  do  you  mean?"  for  Mrs. 
Holmes  seemed  now  in  fair  breath,  and  was  always 
given  to  comparative  reviews. 

*  So  I  knocks  and  says,  '  Mr.  Perkins,  'ow  are 
you  feeling  ? '  and  all  I  could  'ear  was  '  temper- 
ance '* ;  it's  little  as  he  needs  of  that,  for  excepting 
a  glass  of  wine  at  his  dinner,  and  it  might  be  some- 
thing 'ot  before  going  to  bed  in  winter.  .  .  . 

"  So  I  goes  in,"  resumed  Mrs.  Holmes,  "  an' 
there  'e  was  sittin'  up  in  'is  bed,  with  'is  face  as 
red  as  fire,  an'  not  knowing  me  from  Adam.  If 
it  wasn't  for  'is  'abits  an'  a-catching  of  'is  breath 
you  wud  'ave  said  drink,  for  'e  says,  '  How  often 
have  the  drains  been  sluiced  last  year  ? ' '  After 
which  I  went  up  to  Mr.  Perkins'  room  without 
ceremony. 

He  was  explaining,  with  much  cogency,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  that  unless  the  statistics  of  tempera- 


146  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

ture  embraced  the  whole  year,  they  would  afford 
no  reliable  conclusions  regarding  the  sanitary  con- 
dition of  Board  Schools ;  but  when  I  addressed  him 
by  name  with  emphasis,  he  came  to  himself  with  a 
start. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir ;  I  must  apologise  ...  I 
really  did  not  hear  ...  in  fact,"  and  then,  as 
he  realised  his  situation,  Mr.  Perkins  was  greatly 
embarrassed. 

"  Did  I  forget  myself  so  far  as  ...  to  send 
for  you?  ...  I  was  not  feeling  well.  I  have 
a  slight  difficulty  in  breathing,  but  I  am  quite  able 
to  go  to  the  office  ...  in  a  cab. 

"  You  are  most  kind  and  obliging,  but  the  sched- 
ule I  am  ...  it  just  comes  and  goes  .  .  . 
thank  you,  no  more  water  ...  is  important 
and  .  .  .  intricate;  no  one  .  .  .  can  com- 
plete it  ...  except  myself. 

"  With  your  permission  I  will  rise  ...  in 
a  few  minutes  .  .  .  ten  o'clock,  dear  me 
.  .  .  this  is  most  unfortunate  .  .  .  not  get 
down  till  eleven  ...  I  must  really  insist 
.  .  ."  But  the  doctor  had  come,  and  Mr.  Perkins 
obeyed  on  one  condition. 

"  Yes,  doctor,  I  prefer,  if  you  please,  to  know ; 
you  see  I  am  not  a  young  person  .  .  .  nor 
nervous  .  .  .  thank  you  very  much  .  .  . 
quite  so ;  pneumonia  is  serious  .  .  .  and  double 
pneumonia  dangerous,  I  understand  .  .  .  no, 
it  is  not  that  .  .  .  one  is  not  alarmed  at  my 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL  147 

age,  but  .  .  .  yes,  I'll  lie  down  .  .  .  letter 
must  go  to  office  .  .  .  dictate  it  to  my  friend 
.  .  .  certain  form  .  .  .  leave  of  absence,  in 
fact  .  .  .  trouble  you  too  much  .  .  .  med- 
ical certificate." 

He  was  greatly  relieved  after  this  letter  was  sent 
by  special  messenger  with  the  key  of  his  desk,  and 
quite  refreshed  when  a  clerk  came  up  with  the 
chief's  condolences. 

"'  My  compliments  to  Mr.  Lighthead  .  .  . 
an  excellent  young  official,  very  promising  indeed 
.  .  .  and  would  he  step  upstairs  for  a  minute 
.  .  .  will  excuse  this  undress  in  circumstances 
.  .  .  really  I  will  not  speak  any  more. 

"  Those  notes,  Mr.  Lighthead,  will  make  my  idea 
quite  plain  .  .  .  and  I  hope  to  revise  final  draft 
.  .  .  if  God  will  .  .  .  my  dutiful  respect  to 
the  Board,  and  kind  regards  to  the  chief  clerk 
v'v.  •  it  was  kind  of  you  to  come,  most  thought- 
ful." 

This  young  gentleman  came  into  my  room 
to  learn  the  state  of  the  case,  and  was  much  im- 
pressed. 

"  Really  this  kind  of  thing — Perkins  gasping  in 
bed  and  talking  in  his  old-fashioned  way — knocks 
one  out  of  time,  don't  you  know?  If  he  had  gone 
on  much  longer  I  should  have  bolted. 

"Like  him  in  the  office?  I  should  think  so. 
You  should  have  seen  the  young  fellows  to-day 
when  they  heard  he  was  so  ill.  Of  course  we  laugh 


148  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

a  bit  at  him — Schedule  Perkins  he's  called — because 
he's  so  dry  and  formal ;  but  that's  nothing. 

"  With  all  his  little  cranks,  he  knows  his  busi- 
ness better  than  any  man  in  the  department;  and 
then  he's  a  gentleman,  d'y  see  ?  could  not  say  a  rude 
word  or  do  a  mean  thing  to  save  his  life — not  made 
that  way,  in  fact. 

"  Let  me  just  give  you  one  instance — show  you 
his  sort.  Every  one  knew  that  he  ought  to  have 
been  chief  clerk,  and  that  Rodway's  appointment 
was  sheer  influence.  The  staff  was  mad,  and  some 
one  said  Rodway  need  not  expect  to  have  a  par- 
ticularly good  time. 

"  Perkins  overheard  him,  and  chipped  in  at 
once.  '  Mr.  Rodway ' — you  know  his  dry  manner, 
wagging  his  eyeglass  all  the  time — '  is  our  superior 
officer,  and  we  are  bound  to  render  him  every  as- 
sistance in  our  power,  or,'  and  then  he  was  splendid, 
'  resign  our  commissions.'  Rodway,  they  say,  has 
retired;  but  the  worst  of  it  is  that  as  Perkins  has 
been  once  passed  over  he  'ill  not  succeed. 

"  Perhaps  it  won't  matter,  poor  chap.  I  say." 
said  Lighthead,  hurriedly,  turning  his  back  and 
examining  a  pipe  on  the  mantel-piece,  "  do  you 
think  he  is  going  to  ...  I  mean,  has  he  a 
chance? " 

"  Just  a  chance,  I  believe.  Have  you  been  long 
with  him  ?  " 

"  That's  not  it — it's  what  he's  done  for  a  ... 
for  fellows.  Strangers  don't  know  Perkins.  You 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL  149 

might  talk  to  him  for  a  year,  and  never  hear  any- 
thing but  shop.  Then  one  day  you  get  into  a  hole, 
and  you  would  find  out  another  Perkins. 

"  Stand  by  you  ? "  and  he  wheeled  round. 
"  Rather,  and  no  palaver  either :  with  money  and 
with  time  and  with  .  .  .  other  things  that  do 
a  fellow  more  good  than  the  whole  concern,  and 
no  airs.  There's  more  than  one  man  in  our  office 
has  cause  to  ...  bless  Schedule  Perkins. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  how  he  got  .  .  .  one  chap 
out  of  the  biggest  scrape  he  '11  ever  fall  into. 
Do  you  mind  me  smoking?"  And  then  he  made 
himself  busy  with  matches  and  a  pipe  that  was  ever 
going  out  for  the  rest  of  the  story. 

"  Well,  you  see,  this  man,  clerk  in  our  office,  had 
not  been  long  up  from  the  country,  and  he  was 
young.  Wasn't  quite  bad,  but  he  couldn't  hold  his 
own  with  older  fellows. 

"  He  got  among  a  set  that  had  suppers  in  their 
rooms,  and  gambled  a  bit,  and  he  lost  and  borrowed, 
and  ...  in  fact,  was  stone  broke. 

"  It's  not  very  pleasant  for  a  fellow  to  sit  in  his 
room  a  week  before  Christmas,  and  know  that  he 
may  be  cashiered  before  the  holidays,  and  all 
through  his  own  fault. 

"  If  it  were  only  himself,  why,  he  might  take  his 

licking  and  go  to  the  Colonies;  but  it  was  hard 

.     .     .     on    his    mother — it's    always    going    out, 

this  pipe — when  he  was  her  only  son,  and  she  rather 

believed  in  him. 


I5o  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

"  Didn't  sleep  much  that  night — told  me  him- 
self afterwards — and  he  concluded  that  the  best 
way  out  was  to  buy  opium  in  the  City  next  day, 
and  take  it — pretty  stiff  dose,  you  know — next 
night. 

"  Cowardly  rather,  of  course,  but  it  might  be 
easier  for  the  mater  down  in  Devon — his  mother, 
I  mean — did  I  say  he  was  Devon? — same  county 
as  myself — affair  would  be  hushed  up,  and  she 
would  have  .  .  .  his  memory  clean. 

"  As  it  happened,  though,  he  didn't  buy  any 
opium  next  day — didn't  get  the  chance ;  for  Perkins 
came  round  to  his  desk,  and  asked  this  young  chap 
to  have  a  bit  of  dinner  with  him — aye,  and  made 
him  come. 

"  He  had  the  jolliest  little  dinner  ready  you  ever 
saw,  and  he  insisted  on  the  fellow  smoking,  though 
Perkins  hates  the  very  smell  of  'baccy,  and — well, 
he  got  the  whole  trouble  out  of  him,  except  the 
opium. 

"  D'y  think  he  lectured  and  scolded  ?  Not  a 
bit — that's  not  Perkins — he  left  the  fool  to  do  his 
own  lecturing,  and  he  did  it  stiff.  I'll  tell  you  what 
he  said :  '  Your  health  must  have  been  much  tried 
by  this  anxiety,  so  you  must  go  down  and  spend 
Christmas  with  your  mother,  and  I  would  venture 
to  suggest  that  you  take  her  a  suitable  gift. 

"  '  With  regard  to  your  debt,  you  will  allow  me,' 
and  Perkins  spoke  as  if  he  had  been  explaining  a 
schedule,  '  to  take  it  over,  on  two  conditions — that 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL   151 

you  repay  me  by  instalments  every  quarter,  and  dine 
with  me  every  Saturday  evening  for  six  months.' 

"  See  what  he  was  after?  Wanted  to  keep 
.'*,  .  .  the  fellow  straight,  and  cheer  him  up;  and 
you've  no  idea  how  Perkins  came  out  those  Satur- 
days— capital  stories  as  ever  you  heard — and  he  de- 
clared that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him. 

"  '  I  am  rather  lonely,'  he  used  to  say,  '  and  it 
is  most  kind  of  a  young  man  to  sit  with  me/ 
Kind!" 

"  What  was  the  upshot  with  your  friend  ?  Did 
he  turn  over  a  new  leaf  ?  " 

"  He  'ill  never  be  the  man  that  Perkins  expects* 
but  he's  doing  his  level  best,  and  ...  is  rising 
in  the  office.  Perkins  swears  by  him,  and  that's 
made  a  man  of  the  fellow. 

"  He's  paid  up  the  cash  now,  but  ...  he  can 
never  pay  up  the  kindness — confound  those  wax 
matches,  they  never  strike — he  told  his  mother  last 
summer  the  whole  story. 

"  She  wrote  to  Perkins — of  course  I  don't  know 
what  was  in  the  letter — but  Perkins  had  the  fellow 
into  his  room.  '  You  ought  to  have  regarded  our 
transaction  as  confidential.  I  am  grieved  you  men- 
tioned my  name ; '  and  then  as  I — I  mean,  as  the 
fellow — was  going  out,  '  I'll  keep  that  letter  beside 
my  commission,'  said  Perkins. 

"  If  Perkins  dies  " — young  men  don't  do  that 
kind  of  thing,  or  else  one  would  have  thought — 
"  it  'ill  be  ...  a  beastly  shame,"  which  was  a 


terrible  collapse,  and  Mr.  Geoffrey  Lighthead,  of 
the  Schedule  Department,  left  the  house  without 
further  remark  or  even  shaking  hands. 

That  was  Wednesday,  and  on  Friday  morning 
he  appeared,  flourishing  a  large  blue  envelope  sealed 
with  an  imposing  device,  marked  "  On  Her  Majes- 
ty's Service,"  and  addressed  to — 

"  Frederick  Augustus  Perkins,  Esq., 
"  First  Class  Clerk  in  the   Schedule  Department, 
"  Somerset  House, 

"  London," 

an  envelope  any  man  might  be  proud  to  receive, 
and  try  to  live  up  to  for  a  week. 

"  Rodway  has  retired,"  he  shouted,  "  and  we  can't 
be  sure  in  the  office,  but  the  betting  is  four  to  one — 
I'm  ten  myself — that  the  Board  has  appointed  Per- 
kins Chief  Clerk,"  and  Lighthead  did  some  steps  of 
a  triumphal  character. 

"  The  Secretary  appeared  this  morning  after  the 
Board  had  met.  '  There's  a  letter  their  Honours 
wish  taken  at  once  to  Mr.  Perkins.  Can  any  of  you 
deliver  it  as  his  residence  ? '  Then  the  other  men 
looked  at  me,  because — well,  Perkins  has  been 
friendly  with  me ;  and  that  hansom  came  very  cred- 
itably indeed. 

"  Very  low,  eh  ?  Doctors  afraid  not  last  over 
the  night — that's  hard  lines  .  .  .  but  I  say, 
they  did  not  reckon  on  this  letter.  Could  not  you 
read  it  to  him?  You  see  this  was  his  one  ambi- 
tion, He  cpuld  never  be  Secretary,  not  able 


A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL   153 

enough,  but  he  was  made  for  Chief  Clerk.  Now 
he's  got  it,  or  I  would  not  have  been  sent  out  skim- 
ming with  this  letter.  Read  it  to  him,  and  the  dear 
old  chap  will  be  on  his  legs  in  a  week." 

It  seemed  good  advice,  and  this  was  what  I  read, 
while  Perkins  lay  very  still  and  did  his  best  to 
breathe : — 

"  DEAR  MR.  PERKINS, — 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you  that  the  Board 
have  appointed  you  Chief  Clerk  in  the  Schedule 
Department  in  succession  to  Gustavus  Rodway, 
Esq.,  who  retires,  and  their  Honours  desire  me 
further  to  express  their  appreciation  of  your  long 
and  valuable  service,  and  their  earnest  hope  that  you 
may  be  speedily  restored  to  health.  I  am, 
"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  ARTHUR  WRAXHALL, 

"  Secretary." 

For  a  little  time  it  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Per- 
kins, and  then  he  whispered: — 

"  The  one  thing  on  earth  I  wished,  and  .  .  . 
more  than  I  deserved  .  .  .  not  usual,  personal 
references  in  Board  letters  .  .  .  perhaps  hard- 
ly regular  .  .  .  but  most  gratifying  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  strengthening. 

"  I  feel  better  already  .  .  -  .  some  words  I 
would  like  to  hear  again  .  .  .  thank  you, 
where  I  can  reach  it  ,,-.-,  nurse  will  be  so 
good  as  to  read  it."  . 


154  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICIAL 

Mr.  Perkins  revived  from  that  hour,  having  his 
tonic  administered  at  intervals,  and  astonished  the 
doctors.  On  Christmas  Eve  he  had  made  such  prog- 
ress that  Lighthead  was  allowed  to  see  him  for 
five  minutes. 

"  Heard  about  your  calling  three  times  a  day 
.  .  .  far  too  kind  with  all  your  work  .  .  . 
and  the  messages  from  the  staff  .  .  .  touched 
me  to  heart  .  .  .  never  thought  had  so  many 
friends  .  .  .  wished  been  more  friendly  my- 
self. 

"  My  promotion,  too  .  .  .  hope  may  be  fit 
for  duty  .  .  .  can't  speak  much,  but  think  I'll 
be  spared  .  .  .  Almighty  very  good  to  me 
.  .  .  Chief  Clerk  of  Schedule  Department 
.  .  .  would  you  mind  saying  Lord's  Prayer  to- 
gether ...  it  sums  up  everything." 

So  we  knelt  one  on  each  side  of  Perkins'  bed, 
and  I  led  with  "  Our  Father  " — the  other  two  being 
once  or  twice  quite  audible.  The  choir  of  a  neigh- 
bouring church  were  singing  a  Christmas  carol  in 
the  street,  and  the  Christ  came  into  our  hearts  as  a 
little  child. 


THE    RIGHT   HAND    OF   SAMUEL 
DODSON 


THE  RIGHT  HAND  OF  SAMUEL 
DODSON 


"  Smoking,  as  usual,  and  wasting  your  time  after 
luncheon,  instead  of  hurrying  to  your  offices  and 
coining  time  into  money  like  old  Sam  Dodson, 
who  can  give  the  cash  value  of  every  five  minutes," 
and  Welsby  sat  down  beside  three  other  young 
Liverpool  merchants  in  the  club — all  men  who  had 
one  eye  on  business  and  the  other  on  the  good  of 
the  city.  "  Something's  happened  since  I  saw  you 
fellows  last  on  'Change.  Guess." 

"  Cotton  up  three  points  ?  A  corn  corner  at  Chi- 
cago? A  big  bear  in  lard?  Anything  to  do  with 
fruit?" 

"  Nothing  whatever  to  do  with  such  prosaic  sub- 
jects, and  I  am  ashamed  to  notice  your  mercenary 
tempers ;  this  is  a  public  affair,  and  is  to  be  a  pro- 
found secret  for  exactly  seventy  minutes,  after 
which  it  will  appear  in  the  fourth  edition  of  the 
Evening  Trumpet. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  the  early  news  could  not  be 
used  for  an  operation  in  cotton,  but  I'll  take  it  along 
to  the  '  Flags/  and  tell  it  under  pledge  of  silence  to 


158  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

half  a  dozen  brokers.  If  you  are  really  interested 
in  the  matter,  this  will  give  it  a  wider  and  more  cer- 
tain circulation  than  any  Trumpet  could." 

"  We're  all  ears,  Welsby." 

"  Well,  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  you  know  how 
our  people  in  Liverpool  are  crowded  together  in 
courts  and  rookeries  without  room  or  air.  It's  hard 
on  the  men  and  women,  but  it's  hardest  on  the  chil- 
dren, who  have  no  place  to  play  in  but  the  gutter. 

"  So  a  man  wrote  a  letter  to  the  papers  about 
a  month  ago,  pleading  for  a  fund  to  put  down  small 
playgrounds  in  the  crowded  districts,  where  the  lit- 
tle folk  could  come  of  an  evening,  and  the  mothers 
could  sit,  and  the  men  might  smoke  a  pipe.  .  .  ." 

"  I  remember  the  letter,"  broke  in  Cotton ;  "  it 
was  signed  '  Philanthropist,'  and  was  generally  sup- 
posed to  have  been  composed  in  a  moment  of  in- 
spiration by  some  proprietor  of  insanitary  property ; 
it  was  an  elegant  letter,  and  affected  me  very  much 
— to  tears,  in  fact." 

"  It  was  signed  '  Charles  Welsby,'  and  you  never 
read  a  word  of  it,  because  it  had  no  reference  to 
polo  nor  the  Macfarlane  Institute  for  Working 
Lads,  the  only  subjects  to  which  you  give  any  atten- 
tion. Four  people  read  it,  however,  and  wrote  to 
me  at  once.  One  man  denounced  the  scheme  as 
another  instance  of  the  patronage  of  the  rich.  He 
added  that  it  was  a  sop,  and  that  the  toilers  would 
soon  find  open  places  for  themselves." 

"  He  would  mean  your  garden,  Welsby/'  sug- 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         159 

gested  Lard.  "  The  Socialist  has  two  main  prin- 
ciples of  action :  first,  to  give  nothing  to  any  good 
cause  himself ;  and  second,  to  appropriate  his  neigh- 
bour's property  on  the  first  opportunity.  And  your 
other  correspondents  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  the  inventor  of  a  non- 
intoxicating  beer,  offering  £5  on  condition  that  we 
advertised  his  beverage,  which  he  discovered  by 
supernatural  guidance  and  sold  for  philanthropic 
ends." 

"  All  queer  beverages  and  patent  medicines  are 
owned  by  high-class  religious  people,  as  far  as  I 
can  understand,"  remarked  Corn.  "  Go  on." 

"  A  third  letter  warned  me  that  such  spaces 
would  be  abused  by  bad  characters  and  sap  the 
morals  of  the  people ;  the  writer  also  wanted  to 
know  whether  they  would  be  closed  on  the  Sab- 
bath." 

"  A  publican  evidently,"  remarked  Cotton ;  "  no 
man  is  so  concerned  about  Sabbath  observance. 
And  so  you  got  sick  of  the  whole  affair  ?  " 

"  Rather,  till  I  got  this  letter.  I'll  read  it,  and 
then  you  can  make  your  guesses  at  the  enclosure. 

"  '  LIVERPOOL,  June  g,  189-. 
"  '  MY  DEAR  SIR, — Your  letter  of  /th  ult,  in  the 
issue  of  the  Morning  Trumpet  of  May  8,  caught 
my  eye  and  received  my  most  careful  attention. 
As  you  appeared  to  have  established  a  primd  facie 
case  for  what  you  designate  "  People's  Play- 


160  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

grounds,"  I  have  occupied  my  leisure  time  in  ex- 
amining the  sanitary  and  social  condition  of  certain 
parts  of  our  city  which  were  more  or  less  distinctly 
indicated  in  your  letter.  As  the  result  of  my  inves- 
tigations, I  am  thoroughly  convinced,  in  the  first 
place,  that  you  have  proved  your  case  as  regards 
the  unfortunate  circumstances  of  the  children  in 
such  parts,  and,  in  the  second  place,  that  your  plan 
for  their  relief  is  practical  and  wisely  considered. 

1 '  It  then  became  my  duty  as  a  citizen  of  Liver- 
pool to  consider  what  I  could  do  to  further  the 
ends  of  your  scheme,  and  it  seemed  to  me  on  the 
whole  most  advisable  to  place  a  sum  of  money  at 
your  disposal,  on  condition  that  it  be  spent  with 
such  other  sums  as  may  be  sent  you  in  purchasing 
decaying  property  and  creating  playgrounds — said 
playgrounds  to  be  vested  in  the  Parks  and  Gardens 
Committee  of  the  City  Council — and  I  would  sug- 
gest that  people  interested  in  each  district  be  allowed 
and  encouraged  to  contribute  to  the  furnishing  and 
adornment  of  the  playgrounds. 

"  '  I  beg  therefore  to  enclose  a  draft  in  your  fa- 
vour on  Messrs.  Goldbeater  &  Co.,  Lombard  Street, 
London,  and  I  have  only  to  add  my  sincere  approval 
of  the  good  work  you  are  doing  among  the  poor 
of  Liverpool,  and  my  wish,  which,  as  a  man  of 
honour,  you  will  doubtless  carefully  respect,  that 
you  will  take  no  steps  to  discover  my  name. — I  have 
the  honour  to  be,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  '  ZACCHEUS/  " 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         161 

"  Satisfactory,  very,  although  a  trifle  pedantic  and 
long-winded.  And  the  sum,  Welsby?  I  say  £250." 

"  £500,"  said  Cotton. 

"£i,ooo,"  cried  Lard. 

"What  do  you  say  to  £10,000?"  and  the  draft 
was  handed  round. 

"  Congratulate  you,  old  man."  Corn  shook 
hands  with  Welsby,  and  so  did  they  all,  for  he 
had  worked  hard  in  many  a  good  cause.  "  You 
deserve  your  luck ;  think  I'll  take  to  writing  letters 
for  my  pet  hospital.  Who  can  he  be?  Do  you  sus- 
pect any  one  ? " 

"  Half  a  dozen,  but  I'm  bound  not  to  inquire ; 
and  I  rather  think  that  the  trail  is  covered  at 
Goldbeater's  beyond  finding.  But  I  know  who  did 
not  give  it — Sarn  Dodson. 

"  No,  of  course  I  did  not  ask  him  for  help.  One 
does  not  court  refusals;  but  you  know  his  med- 
dling, ferreting  ways.  If  he  didn't  stop  me  in  the 
street  and  ask  fifty  questions  till  I  hinted  at  a  sub- 
scription, when  he  was  off  in  a  minute." 

"  Nothing  frightens  him  like  a  suggestion  of 
that  kind.  He  has  raised  meanness  to  the  height  of 
genius.  T-hey  say  that  he  is  worth  £200,000,  but  I 
wouldn't  change  with  him," said  Lard, "for  a  million. 
When  he  dies,  Dodson  will  not  leave  a  soul  to  regret 
him,  and  there'll  not  be  six  people  at  his  funeral." 

"  You  can't  be  sure,  gentlemen,"  said  a  quiet 
voice  behind ;  "  I've  overheard  you  on  Dodson,  and 
I  hope  what  you  say  is  not  true." 


162  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

The  speaker  was  one  of  those  rare  souls  God 
sends  forth  at  a  time  to  establish  our  faith  in  good- 
ness; who  are  believed  in  by  all  parties,  and  re- 
spected by  all  creeds,  and  loved  by  all  classes ;  who 
sit  on  all  the  charitable  boards,  and  help  on  every 
good  cause,  and  make  peace  in  quarrels ;  whom  old 
men  consult  in  their  perplexities,  and  young  men 
turn  to  in  trouble,  and  people  follow  with  affectionate 
glances  in  the  street;  who  never  suspect  their  own 
excellence,  always  take  the  lowest  seat,  and  have 
to  be  compelled  to  accept  an  honour. 

"  You  have  a  good  word  to  say  for  everybody, 
sir,"  said  Cotton  with  deep  respect ;  "  but  have  you, 
even,  ever  got  a  penny  from  Mr.  Dodson  for  a 
charity  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  cannot  say  that  I  remember  an  in- 
stance; only  I'm  sure  that  he  has  his  own  way 
of  doing  good.  Every  one  has,  unless  he  be  utterly 
bad;  and  I'm  seventy  years  old,  gentlemen,  and  I 
never  met  that  kind  yet." 

"  Greatheart  is  the  only  man  in  Liverpool  who 
would  say  a  word  for  Dodson,"  said  Lard  a  minute 
later,  "  and  in  this  case  his  charity  has  rather  over- 
shot the  mark;  but  it  does  one  good  to  hear  the 
old  man.  He  is  a  walking  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
and  the  best  thing  about  him  is  that  he  believes 
in  everybody;  the  very  sight  of  his  white  hair 
makes  me  a  better  man." 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         163 


II 


"  How  tired  you  must  be,  Fred,  after  four  hours' 
begging  in  offices!  I'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea 
in  the  study  at  once,  and  then  you  are  to  have  a  nice 
little  dinner  all  to  yourself. 

"  Oh,  no,  I've  not  been  extravagant  at  all,  and 
I've  not  taken  any  money  out  of  our  alms-box, 
and  I'm  not  a  wicked  parson's  wife  who  gets  into 
debt;  but  a  hamper  came  from  the  country,  with 
lots  of  good  things  in  it,  and  you  will  have  the 
chicken;  the  children  and  I  simply  rioted  in  plenty 
to-day.  Now,  I'll  not  hear  a  word  about  your  ex- 
pedition until  you  have  had  some  food." 

"  There,  I  feel  a  perfect  glutton,  Ethel.  I  hope 
you  have  sent  some  of  the  h-hamper  to  the  sick." 

"  I've  done  nothing  of  the  kind ;  every  single  bit 
is  to  be  eaten  in  this  Vicarage  of  St.  Ambrose ;  you 
would  starve  yourself  and  your  family  for  the  par- 
ish, and  I  am  sure  you  are  the  hardest  working 
man  in  it.  Well,  have  you  got  the  money  to  furnish 
the  playground  of  St.  Ambrose's  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  have  I  come  home  with  £54  in 
my  pocket  as  the  result  of  one  r-raid  by  a  poor,  dull, 
s-stammering  parson,  who  couldn't  make  an  elo- 
quent appeal  to  save  his  life  ?  " 


164  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

"  You  don't  stammer,  Fred,  and  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  say  such  things;  you  may  .  .  .  hesi- 
tate at  a  time,  and  I  am  sure  any  one  would  give 
you  money  for  a  good  cause,  because  you  are 
.  .  .  so  sincere  and  .  .  ." 

"  That  will  do,  Ethel ;  it's  a  great  h-help  to  an 
obscure  parson  in  the  poorest  of  parishes  to  have  a 
wife  who  believes  in  him,  and  makes  four  hundred 
pounds  out  of  two." 

"  And  now  about  the  money.  Was  the  asking 
hard?" 

"  It  might  have  been,  but  every  one  was  so  j- jolly. 
The  first  man  I  went  to  was  Mr.  Welsby,  and  as 
soon  as  I  came  into  his  room  he  cried  out,  '  Was 
just  thinking  of  you :  I  hope  you're  on  the  w-war- 
path  for  that  playground,  for  I've  a  five-pound  note 
ready  for  you.' 

"  He  sent  me  on  to  a  cotton  b-broker,  and  he 
thanked  me  several  times  for  coming  on  such  a 
good  errand,  and  backed  up  Welsby  with  five 
pounds.  Every  person  had  a  kind  word,  and  by 
five  o'clock  I  had  .  .  ." 

"  The  whole  sum  ?  " 

"  With  six  p-pounds  over,  which  will  get  a  little 
sheltered  seat  for  old  people.  How  good  those 
city  fellows  are  when  they  fancy  a  cause." 

"  And  when  they  fancy  the  man  who  pleads  it, 
Fred.  Did  you  not  get  one  refusal  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  h-hurt  by  one  man,  who  treated 
me  rather  shabbily.  He  allowed  me  to  explain  the 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          165 

whole  scheme — swings,  sand-heaps,  seats  and  all — 
and  he  asked  me  a  hundred  questions  about  the 
parish  and  my  work,  till  I  think  he  knew  as  much 
about  the  place  as  we  do  ourselves,  and  then  sent 
me  off  without  a  penny — said  he  didn't  give  to  sub- 
scriptions on  p-principle." 

"  What  a  mean,  hypocritical  wretch !  " 

"  I  left  rather  down,  for  I  had  lost  h-half  an 
hour  with  him,  and  I  was  afraid  I  had  offended 
him  by  some  remark,  but  when  I  met  Welsby  again 
in  the  street  and  told  him,  he  declared  that  I  ought 
not  to  have  been  sent  there,  because  D-Dodson — 
that's  his  name — was  the  most  inquisitive  and  hard- 
est man  on  'Change." 

"  He  can't  be  a  gentleman,  at  any  rate,  to  ques- 
tion you  for  mere  curiosity;  I  hope  you  gave  him 
something  to  think  over." 

"  No,  I  didn't ;  it's  no  use,  and  only  frets  oneself. 
He  had  a  big  c-chance  and  lost  it.  What  do  you 
say  to  inviting  the  subscribers  down  some  evening 
when  the  playground  is  in  full  occupation?  They 
will  get  full  value  for  their  money  at  the  sight 
of  the  girls  on  the  swings,  and  the  boys  at  ball, 
and  the  b-babies  scooping  up  the  sand,  and  the  old 
folks  sunning  themselves  on  their  seats." 

"  It  will  be  splendid ;  but,  Fred,  it  goes  to  my 
heart  that  our  own  boys  can  have  no  holiday,  and 
when  their  schoolfellows  are  away  in  Wales,  will 
be  sweltering  in  this  close  house." 

"  How  much  have  we  in  the  h-holiday  fund  ?  " 


i66  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

"  Just  two  pounds  and  sixpence.  Save  as  I 
would,  that  is  all  I  could  manage.  .  .  .  If  we 
had  not  given  so  much  away  we  might  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  just  as  r- ready  to  give  as  I  am,  my 
little  wife,  and  none  of  us  regret  anything  we've 
done  for  the  poor  souls  around  us;  but  I'm  sorry 
for  the  boys.  Did  you  tell  them  ?  " 

"  No,  I  hadn't  the  heart,  so  I  played  the  coward 
and  said  you  were  thinking  the  matter  over,  and 
that  you  would  tell  them,  perhaps,  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Do  you  know  I  rather  s-suspected  this  would 
be  the  end  of  it,  and  I  was  planning  how  to  make 
the  best  of  things.  I  made  up  a  series  of  cheap 
trips,  personally  conducted,  to  New  Brighton,  and 
Cheshire,  and  Hale;  you'll  give  us  our  l-lunch, 
and  we'll  have  a  regular  picnic.  I  have  some  old 
knick-knacks  of  my  schooldays  at  Shrewsbury,  and 
I'll  offer  them  as  p-prizes  for  the  best  account  of 
the  day.  You'll  come  with  us,  too,  and  we'll  have 
a  particularly  jolly  time. 

"Letters?  The  post  is  late  to-night.  That  is 
about  the  c-contract  for  swings,  and  this  is  a  di- 
ocesan circular,  and  there  is  a  new  company  p-pros- 
pectus — rather  an  irony  sending  it  to  me — but  here 
are  two  unknown  hands ;  let  us  see  the  news. 

"  Now  isn't  this  good  ?  £3  for  the  playground 
from  a  Dissenter  who  c-complains  I  didn't  call  on 
him,  and  has  a  kind  word  about  my  hard  work,  as 
he  calls  it ;  and  I've  been  often  annoyed  at  that  man 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          167 

for  the  things  he  said  on  Disestablishment.  He 
may  say  anything  he  pleases  now  on  a  platform;  I 
know  there  is  a  kind  heart  behind  the  words. 

"  Will  this  be  more  money  for  the  s-swings  ? 
Hurrah!  here  is  an  enclosure  of  some  sort.  But 
what  is  this  .  .  .  ? " 

"  What's  wrong,  Fred  ?  Is  any  one  dead  ?  Are 
you  ill  .  .  .?" 

"  Ethel,  you  are  an  excellent  m-manager."  The 
Vicar,  very  white  as  to  his  cheeks,  and  somewhat 
wet  as  to  his  eyes,  stood  on  the  hearthrug  and 
waved  his  wife  to  a  distance.  "  Be  g-good  enough 
to  secure  a  commodious  farmhouse  in  North  Wales, 
somewhere  between  Bettws-y-Coed  and  Llanberis, 
for  the  month  of  August — with  a  little  f-fishing  at- 
tached, if  possible. 

"  Please  sit  down,  Ethel,  and  don't  interrupt. 
I'm  sane,  quite  sane;  much  p-playground  and  do- 
mestic affliction  have  not  made  me  mad.  Now, 
where  was  I  ?  Yes,  and  arrange  quite  a  s-series  of 
tours  round  by  Festiniog,  and  up  Snowdon,  and 
down  to  Llandudno,  and  another  to  the  Menai 
Straits.  .  .  . 

'"'  You  are  an  extravagant,  d-dressy  woman, 
Ethel,  so  you  may  get  a  n-natty  walking  dress  and 
three  blouses,  but  keep  a  trifle  for  f-fishing  appar- 
atus and  special  provisions  .  .  .  you  are 
t-throttling  me  ...  then  read  it  yourself,  read 
it  aloud,  and  ...  I  will  p-process  round  the 
table.  I  wish  the  boys  had  not  gone  to  bed." 


168  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

"  LIVERPOOL,  July  16,  189 — . 

"  REVEREND  AND  DEAR  SIR, — It  has  come  to 
my  knowledge  from  various  quarters  that  you  and 
your  devoted  partner  in  life  are  doing  a  most  benefi- 
cent work,  both  sacred  and  secular,  in  a  very  neces- 
sitous district  of  our  great  city,  and  that  you  are 
discharging  this  duty  to  your  fellow-creatures  at 
severe  cost  to  yourselves  and  your  family. 

"  My  observation  of  life  leads  me  to  believe 
that  none  of  our  citizens  live  harder  lives,  or  make 
greater  sacrifices,  than  clergymen  of  limited  means 
whose  sphere  of  labour  lies  in  poor  parishes,  and, 
without  being  in  any  sense  a  good  man — for  my 
whole  life  is  a  struggle  with  one  besetting  sin, 
which  often  getteth  the  victory — I  have  been  filled 
with  respectful  admiration,  and  have  wished  to  as- 
sist, after  a  humble  fashion,  in  this  Christian  service. 

"  As  you  may  have  some  difficulty  in  securing 
a  suitable  holiday  for  your  family  through  your 
notorious  charity — for  such  is  the  report  concerning 
you — I  venture  with  much  diffidence  to  enclose  a 
draft  on  London,  which  can  be  cashed  at  any  bank, 
for  your  use,  under  two  conditions,  which  I  must 
charge  you  to  observe:  (i)  that  the  whole  sum  be 
employed  to  the  last  penny  in  holiday  expenses — in- 
cluding such  special  outfit  as  may  be  judged  fit  by 
your  wife  for  you  all;  and  (2)  that  you  make  no 
effort  to  discover  the  name  of  your  unworthy  friend. 
The  endorsement  of  this  draft  will  be  sufficient  ac- 
knowledgment, 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          169 

"  Trusting  you  will  all  have  a  health-giving,  hap- 
py, and  long  holiday, 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

"  Your  humble  servant, 

"  ZACCHEUS." 

* 

"  Your  voice  is  a  little  shaky,  Ethel  .  .  . 
don't  wonder  .  .  .  such  nonsense  about  me  and 
such  c-compliments  to  you  .  .  .  yes,  it  will  be 
g-glorious,  another  honeymoon,  and  those  rascals 
of  boys,  why  won't  they.  .  .  .  Let  us  thank 
God,  wife;  it  came  from  Him.  .  .  ." 


170  THE  RIGHT  HAND 


III 


"  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear,  mater,  dear,  that 
corn  is  up  twopence  a  cental,  and  that  the  market 
is  buoyant;  that's  the  good  of  new  blood  being 
brought  into  corn.  I  would  have  been  lost  in  med- 
icine. 

"  I  have  been  studying  the  career  of  a  corn 
prince,  and  it  has  five  chapters.  He  begins  a  poor 
boy — from  the  North  of  Ireland  by  preference, 
but  that  is  not  necessary — then  he  attracts  his 
chief's  attention,  who  sends  him  out  to  America, 
where  even  the  Yankees  can't  hold  their  own  with 
him,  and  he  becomes  manager  of  his  firm.  His 
next  move  is  to  start  in  partnership  with  some 
young  fellow  who  has  money  and  no  brains;  by- 
and-bye  he  discovers  by  instinct  that  corn  is  going 
to  rise,  so  he  buys  it  ahead  by  the  cargo,  and  piles 
up  a  gorgeous  sum — say  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  Afterwards  he  buys  out  Emptyhead,  and 
becomes  the  chief  of  a  big  house  with  lots  of  jun- 
iors, and  he  ends  by  being  a  Bank  director  and 
moving  resolutions  at  the  Town  Hall. 

"  Please  don't  interrupt,  mother,  for  I  have  not 
done  yet.  Long  before  the  Town  Hall  level  this 
rising  corn  man  has  gone  up  by  stages  from  the 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          171 

street  off  Princes  Road  to  an  avenue  near  the  Park, 
and  then  into  the  Park,  and  perhaps  into  the  coun- 
try, whence  he  appears  as  High  Sheriff. 

"  One  minute  more,  you  impatient  mother.  A 
certain  person  who  will  pretend  to  be  nearly  fifty 
when  the  corn  man  comes  into  his  kingdom,  but 
will  remain  always  at  twenty-five  exactly,  and 
grow  prettier  every  year,  will  have  a  better  set 
of  rooms  in  each  new  house,  and,  at  last,  will  have 
her  own  carriage,  and  visit  whole  streets  of  poor 
folk,  and  have  all  Liverpool  blessing  her.  This  is 
the  complete  history  of  the  corn  man  and  his 
mother,  as  it  will  be  expounded  to  after  generations 
of  schoolboys  by  informing  and  moral  philanthro- 
pists. What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  I  think  that  you  are  a  brave  boy,  Jack,  and 
your  mother  is  proud  of  you  and  grateful;  if  it's 
any  reward  for  you  to  know  this,  I  can  say  that 
the  way  you  have  taken  your  disappointment  has 
been  one  of  my  chief  comforts  in  our  great  sor- 
row." 

"  Don't  talk  as  if  I  were  a  sort  of  little  tin  hero, 
mater,  or  else  I'll  have  to  leave  the  room,  for  I'm 
nothing  of  the  sort,  really.  If  you  only  saw  me  at 
my  desk,  or  fussing  round  the  offices,  or  passing  the 
time  of  day  on  corn,  you  would  see  that  I  was  sim- 
ply born  for  business." 

"  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Laycock  solemnly,  "  you  have 
not  been  without  faults,  I'm  thankful  to  say,  for 
you've  been  hot-tempered,  hot-headed,  wilful,  and 


172  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

lots  of  things,  but  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
been  deliberately  untruthful." 

"  Mother,  with  all  respect  to  you,  I  will  not  stand 
this  insult,"  and  so  he  slipped  down  on  the  floor 
and  caressed  his  mother's  hand.  "  You  think  that 
I've  no  commercial  ability.  Wait  for  the  event.  It 
will  be  swagger,  you  bet." 

"  I  think  everything  that  is  good  of  you,  Jack, 
as  I  ought,  and  your  father  did;  but  I  know  that 
it  was  very  hard  that  you  could  not  go  back  to 
Rugby  this  autumn  and  finish  in  the  sixth,  and 
go  to  Cambridge  and  study  at  Caius,  your  father's 
college,  and  get  your  M.D.,  and  take  up  your  father's 
profession  and  the  one  you  loved,  the  noblest  a 
man  can  live  and  .  .  .  die  in,"  and  there  was 
a  break  in  the  widow's  voice. 

"  Of  course,  mater,  that  is  what  I  would  have 
preferred,  and  it  was  a  bit  .  .  .  stiff  when  I 
knew  that  it  would  all  have  to  be  given  up;  but 
that  was  nothing  to  ...  losing  father.  And 
besides,  I  think  that  I  may  get  on  in  business  and 
.  .  .  help  you,  mother." 

"  Your  father  had  set  his  heart  on  your  being 
a  doctor,  and  I  don't  know  whether  he  ever  spoke 
to  you  about  it,  but  he  hoped  you  might  become 
a  specialist — in  surgery,  I  think;  he  said  you  had 
the  hands  at  least  for  a  good  surgeon. 

"  It  was  his  own  heart's  desire,  you  know,  to  be 
a  surgeon,  pure  and  simple,  and  Mr.  Holman,  the 
great  consultant,  considered  him  to  be  one  pf  the 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         173 

best  operators  in  the  provinces,  but  he  was  obliged 
to  be  a  general  practitioner. 

"  Why  ?  Oh,  because  he  had  no  private  means, 
and  he  had  you  and  me  to  support,  so  he  couldn't 
run  any  risks;  he  had  to  secure  a  regular  income; 
and  there  is  something  I  wish  you  to  understand, 
in  case  you  should  ever  think  hardly  of  your 
father."  ' 

"  Mother — as  if  I  could !  The  very  people  in 
the  street  admired  father;  you  know  what  they 
said  in  the  Morning  Trumpet  about  his  self-sacri- 
ficing life,  and  his  skill  being  at  the  disposal  of  the 
poorest,  without  money  and  without  price." 

"  Yes,  the  papers  were  very  kind,  and  his  pa- 
tients adored  your  father,  but  I  am  certain  some  of 
our  neighbours  criticised  him  because  he  did  not 
make  better  provision  for  his  wife  and  child.  As 
if  he  had  been  extravagant  or  improvident,  who 
never  spent  a  farthing  on  himself,  and  was  always 
planning  for  our  welfare." 

"  You  are  just  torturing  yourself  with  delusions, 
I  am  sure,  mater.  Did  any  single  person  ever  hint 
that  father  had  not  done  .  .  .  his  duty  by  us? 
I  can't  believe  it." 

"  One  man  did,  at  any  rate,  Jack,  and  that  was 
our  neighbour,  Mr.  Dodson." 

"  What  did  he  say,  the  miserable  old  curmud- 
geon? Did  he  dare  to  bring  a  charge  against 
father?  I  wish  I  had  been  with  you." 

"  No,  it  was  not  that  he  said  anything ;  it  was 


174  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

rather  what  he  implied;  he  just  questioned  and 
questioned  in  an  indirect  fashion,  all  by  way  of  in- 
terest in  our  affairs,  but  left  the  impression  on  my 
mind  that  he  thought  the  doctor  ought  to  have  done 
better  for  his  family." 

"  What  business  had  Mr.  Dodson  to  call  at  all 
and  to  ferret  into  our  affairs,  who  was  never  be- 
fore in  our  house?  If  we  needed  help — which  we 
don't — he  is  the  last  man  in  this  district  to  give  it. 
Do  you  know  he's  the  hardest,  meanest  creature  in 
Liverpool  ?  He'll  leave  a  cab  thirty  yards  from  his 
house  when  he's  coming  from  the  station,  to  keep 
within  the  shilling  limit,  and  he  goes  down  in  the 
penny  'bus  with  the  workingwomen  to  save  two- 
pence." 

"  There  is  a  certain  young  corn-broker,"  interpo- 
lated Mrs.  Laycock,  "  who  walks  all  the  way  to  save 
even  that  penny,  and  I  don't  consider  him  mean." 

"  That  is  economy,  and  indicates  the  beginning 
of  a  fortune,  which  will  be  shared  with  a  certain 
sarcastic  mater.  But  Dodson  is  a  millionaire,  and 
has  nobody  depending  on  him  but  an  old  house- 
keeper. Certainly  father  was  not  economical  by  his 
standard." 

"  Your  father  was  most  careful  and  thrifty," 
said  the  widow  eagerly,  "  and  that  is  what  I  want 
to  explain.  He  had  to  borrow  money  to  educate 
himself,  and  that  he  paid  back,  every  penny,  with 
interest.  Then,  you  know,  a  doctor  cannot  keep 
himself  for  the  first  few  years  of  his  practice — he 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         175 

only  made  £32  IDS.  6d.  the  year  he  began — and 
when  he  reached  £200  he  did  a  ...  foolish 
thing." 

"  Let  me  guess,  mater.  Was  it  not  marrying  the 
dearest,  sweetest,  prettiest  .  .  ." 

"  Hush,  you  stupid  boy !  And  we  had  to  keep 
up  a  certain  appearance  and  pay  a  high  rent,  and 
we  were  very  poor — poorer  than  the  public  ever 
knew. 

"  Of  course,  the  doctor  had  a  large  practice  before 
he  died,  and  people  used  to  think  he  made  two  and 
three  thousand  pounds  a  year;  and  Mrs.  Tattler- 
Jones,  who  knows  everything,  said  our  income  was 
£4,000. 

"  His  last  year,  your  father  earned  £i  ,800  and 
got  in  £1,200;  the  other  £600  will  never  be  paid; 
and  yet  he  was  so  pleased  because  he  had  cleared  off 
the  last  penny  of  his  debt,  and  thought  he  would 
begin  to  lay  something  aside  for  your  education." 

"  But  why  did  he  not  get  the  other  £600?  Could 
the  people  not  pay?  " 

"  They  could  pay  everybody  else — wine  mer- 
chants, jewellers,  and  car-owners — but  their  doc- 
tor's bill  was  left  last,  and  often  altogether,  and 
your  father  would  never  prosecute." 
.  "  And  didn't  father  attend  many  people  for  noth- 
ing?" 

"  No  one  will  ever  know  how  many,  for  he  did 
not  even  tell  me;  he  used  to  say  that  if  he  didn't 
get  often  to  church,  he  tried  to  do  as  people  were 


176  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

told  to  do  there;  his  commandment  was  the  elev- 
enth, '  Love  one  another.'  " 

"  Did  father  believe  the  same  as  clergymen  about 
things,  mater?" 

"  No,  not  quite,  and  I  suppose  some  people 
would  call  him  a  heretic;  but  you  and  I  know, 
Jack,  that  if  to  do  good  and  to  be  quite  selfless,  and 
to  be  high-minded,  pure,  and  true,  is  to  be  like 
Christ,  then  the  doctor  was  a  Christian,  the  best  I 
ever  saw." 

"  Very  likely  he  was  the  same  sort  of  heretic  as 
Christ  Himself.  I  say,  mater,  there  will  be  a  good 
lot  to  speak  up  for  father  some  day — widows  and 
orphans  and  such  like.  I'm  proud  to  be  his  son; 
it's  a  deal  better  to  have  such  a  father,  of  whom 
every  person  speaks  well,  than  to  come  in  for  a  pot 
of  money.  If  old  Dodson  had  a  son,  how  ashamed 
he  would  be  of  his  father." 

"  Money  is  not  a  bad  thing,  all  the  same,  Jack," 
and  Mrs.  Laycock  sighed.  "If  we  had  had  a  little 
more  than  the  insurance  policy,  then  we  would  not 
have  had  to  come  to  this  house,  and  you  would  not 
have  been  in  an  office." 

"  It's  a  jolly  house,  I  think ;  and  when  the  Christ- 
mas cards  are  stuck  up  the  decorations  will  be  com- 
plete. I  wonder  if  the  advance  ones  will  come  by 
this  post?  We'll  see  who  remembers  us." 

"  That's  the  bell ;  and  see,  six,  seven,  I  declare, 
ten  to  begin  with!  Here's  one  in  a  rare  old-fash- 
ioned hand.  I'll  take  off  the  envelope  and  you  will 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          177 

see  the  name.  Why,  it's  a  letter,  and  a  long  screed, 
and  a  ...  cheque!" 

"  Have  some  of  those  thieves  paid  their  account  ? 
You  are  crying,  mater.  Is  it  about  father?  May 
I  see  the  letter,  or  is  it  private  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  about  you,  too,  my  son.  I  wish  you 
would  read  it  aloud;  I'm  not  .  .  .  quite  able." 

"  LIVERPOOL,  December  24,  189 — . 
"  DEAR  MADAM, — 

"  Along  with  many  others  in  Liverpool,  I  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  keen  regret  that  in  the  inscrutable 
actings  of  Providence  your  respected  husband,  Dr. 
Laycock,  was,  as  it  appears,  prematurely  removed 
from  his  work  and  family. 

"  It  must  be  a  sincere  consolation  for  his  widow 
to  know  that  no  man  could  have  rendered  more 
arduous  and  salutary  service  to  his  fellows,  many 
of  whom  he  relieved  in  pain,  not  a  few  of  whom 
he  was  instrumental  in  restoring  to  their  families 
from  the  portals  of  death.  Without  curiously 
inquiring  into  the  affairs  of  private  life,  many  per- 
sons were  persuaded  that  Dr.  Laycock  was  in  the 
custom  of  attending  persons  of  limited  means  as  an 
act  of  charity,  whereby  he  did  much  good,  won 
much  affection,  and  doubtless  has  laid  up  for  him- 
self great  riches  in  the  world  to  come,  if  we  are  to 
believe  the  good  Book. 

"  I  have  not,  however,  sent  you  this  letter  merely 
to  express  my  sympathy,  shared  with  so  many  who 


178  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

have  the  privilege,  denied  to  me,  of  your  personal 
friendship,  or  to  express  the  admiration  felt  by  all 
for  the  eminent  departed.  My  object  is  different, 
and  must  be  its  own  excuse.  Unless  I  have  been 
incorrectly  informed — and  my  authority  seemed  ex- 
cellent— the  noble  life  of  Dr.  Laycock  hindered  him 
from  making  that  complete  provision  for  his  family 
which  he  would  have  desired,  and  which  other  men 
in  less  unselfish  walks  of  life  could  have  accom- 
plished. This  disability,  I  am  given  to  understand, 
has  seriously  affected  the  career  of  your  son,  whom 
every  one  describes  as  a  promising  lad,  so  that  he 
has  been  removed  from  a  public  school,  and  has 
been  obliged  to  abandon  the  hope  of  entering  on 
the  study  of  medicine. 

"  If  my  information  be  correct,  it  was  his  father's 
wish  that  your  son  should  follow  in  his  steps,  and  it 
is  incumbent  on  those  who  honoured  Dr.  Laycock 
for  his  example  of  humanity,  to  see  that  his  cher- 
ished wish  be  fulfilled.  Will  you,  therefore,  in  the 
light  of  the  explanation  I  have  made  at  some  length, 
accept  the  draft  I  have  the  honour  to  send — value 
£1,000 — and  use  the  proceeds  in  affording  to  your 
son  a  complete  medical  education  at  home  and 
abroad?  The  thought  that  the  just  desire  of  a  good 
man  has  not  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  that  a  certain 
burden  will  be  lifted  from  his  widow's  life,  will 
be  more  than  sufficient  recompense  to  one  whom 
you  will  never  know,  but  who  will,  so  long  as  he 
may  be  spared,  follow  your  son's  career  with  sincere 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          179 

interest. — Believe  me,  my  dear  madam,  your  obliged 
and  grateful  servant, 

"  ZACCHEUS." 

"  Hold  it  up  against  the  light,  mater ;  it's  the 
prettiest  Christmas  card  we'll  ever  see.  .  .  . 
You  ought  to  be  laughing,  and  not  crying. 
.  .  .  But  I  feel  a  little — just  a  tiny  wee  bit 
watery  myself. 

"  He  might  as  well  have  told  us  his  name ;  but 
I  suppose  he  was  afraid  of  a  row.  Zaccheus? 
Why,  that's  the  man  who  gave  the  playgrounds. 
He  must  have  a  pile,  and  he  knows  how  to  use  it; 
he's  no  Dodson,  you  bet.  At  any  rate,  though  we 
don't  know  him,  we  can  say,  '  God  bless  him,' 
mater." 

"  Amen,"  said  Mrs.  Laycock.  "  I  hope  the 
father  knows." 


i8o  THE  RIGHT  HAND 


IV 


"  How  do  I  know  that  there  is  something  wrong, 
Bert?  Because  we've  been  married  five  years  last 
month,  and  I  can  read  your  face  like  a  book,  or 
rather  a  great  deal  better  than  most  books,  for  I'm 
not  clever  in  following  deep  books,  but  I'm  quite 
sure  about  your  face. 

"  No,  I  don't  imagine,  for  you  may  be  able  to 
hide  what  you  feel  on  the  '  Flags/  but  you  let  out 
the  secret  at  home;  and  that  is  one  reason  why  I 
love  you — because  you  are  not  cunning  and  se- 
cretive. Now  tell  me,  is  cotton  down,  and  have 
you  lost? 

"  Oh,  yes,  Bert,  I  know  your  principle,  that  a 
man  ought  to  bear  the  burden  outside,  and  the 
woman  inside  the  home;  but  there  are  exceptions. 
You  have  acted  up  to  your  principle  splendidly. 
You  have  never  said  a  word  all  these  years,  al- 
though I  know  you've  had  anxious  times,  and  you've 
helped  me  many  a  time  with  my  little  troubles.  Let 
me  help  you  in  yours  now." 

"  Queenie,  if  you  want  to  put  me  to  utter  shame, 
you  have  taken  the  right  way,  for  it's  your  thrift  and 
good  management  which  has  given  us  our  happy 
home,  and  I  ..." 

"  Yes,  you,  Bert,  you  have  idled  your  time,  I 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         181 

suppose,  and  spent  your  money  on  dress,  and  gen- 
erally neglected  your  family.  For  shame,  sir,  when 
you  have  done  so  well,  and  every  one  says  that  no- 
body is  so  much  respected.  Don't  look  like  that 
if  you  love  me.  What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  necessary  that  you  be  told,  and  I  was  going 
to  speak  this  evening,  but  it  is  very  hard.  Queenie, 
when  I  kissed  the  children  and  looked  at  you  all  so 
happy,  I  felt  like  a  ...  murderer." 

"Have  you     .     .     ." 

"  No,  on  my  word  of  honour,  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong,  that  I  can  say;  neither  you  nor  the  little 
ones  have  any  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"If  you  had,  I  would  have  stood  by  your  side, 
Herbert,  but  I  knew  disgrace  would  never  come 
by  you;  then  what  is  it?  If  it's  only  the  loss  of 
some  money,  why,  I  know  half  a  dozen  economies." 

"  It's  far  worse  than  that,  wife,  I  fear.  This 
will  be  our  last  Christmas  in  our  dear  little  home, 
and  it's  all  my  blame,  and  I  feel  .  .  .  the  basest 
of  men.  As  if  you  had  trusted  me  when  I  had  de- 
ceived you  all. 

"  You  are  the  best  wife  ever  man  had.  .  .  . 
I  feel  better,  and  I'll  explain  it  all  to  you.  It  is  not 
very  difficult ;  it  is  so  easy  to  be  ruined. 

"  You  know  we  are  brokers,  and  our  business 
is  to  buy  or  sell  cotton  for  other  people,  and  we  are 
responsible  for  them,  so  that  if  they  cannot  pay  the 
losses,  we  have  to  find  the  money. 

"  Two  of  our  firms,  which  have  been  very  kind 


182  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

to  us,  were  sure  cotton  would  go  up — and  so  ft 
ought  to  have  done,  and  will  in  the  end — and  they 
bought  so  many  bales  through  us. 

"  Well,  a  big  house,  which  can  do  pretty  much 
as  it  likes,  seized  the  opportunity  of  a  fraud  to 
rush  in  and  upset  the  market,  so  our  friends  and 
many  others  have  to  face  declines  they  cannot  meet. 
So  unless  our  poor  little  firm  can  pay  £10,000  at 
least  on  Monday,  we  must  stop,  and  ...  all 
our  hard  work  to  build  up  an  honourable  name  is 
lost. 

"  We  can  scrape  £4,000,  and  my  partner  and  I 
have  £1,000  private  means  to  put  in,  and  .  .  . 
that's  all.  £5,000  short. 

"  Yes,  we  have  tried  the  Bank,  but  they  can't 
do  anything  there.  Goldsworthy,  the  manager,  is 
the  nicest  fellow  living,  and  his  '  No '  is  almost  as 
good  as  another's  '  Yes  ' ;  but  of  course  it  was  '  No  ' ; 
we  had  no  security ;  the  cotton  may  go  lower  before 
it  turns,  and  he  has  told  us  we  must  pay." 

"  But  surely,  Herbert,  if  the  big  firms  knew  how 
you  were  situated,  they  would  help  you,  because 
things  would  come  right  in  a  few  weeks,  you  say." 

"  Every  man  has  to  look  after  himself  in  the  mar- 
ket. But  I  did  go  to  Huddleston,  because  he  has 
given  me  so  much  advice,  and  wanted  me  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  Church.  ...  I  wish  my 
tongue  had  been  burned  before  I  crossed  his  room. 

"  No,  he  wasn't  rude — that's  not  his  sin ;  he  might 
be  better  if  he  were  straighter.  He  hoped  that  I 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          183 

was  prospering  in  business,  and  reminded  me  that 
I  must  not  allow  the  world  to  get  too  much  hold, 
and  became  eloquent  on  money  being  only  a  stew- 
ardship. But  when  I  opened  up  my  errand,  he  ex- 
plained that  he  made  it  a  principle  never  to  lend 
money,  and  suggested  that  this  was  a  chastening  be- 
cause we  had  hasted  to  be  rich.  He  hoped  that  the 
issue  would  be  sanctified,  and  .  .  .  but  I  rose 
and  left,  quite  sick." 

"  What  a  canting  old  wretch !  "  Mrs.  Ransome 
was  very  angry.  "  I  always  hated  that  man's  soft 
sawder;  he's  much  too  pussy  to  be  true." 

"  He  was  not  bound  to  help  me  unless  he  pleased. 
But  what  riled  me  was  his  religious  talk;  he 
might  have  spared  me  that  at  least.  And  if  those 
operators  who  have  knocked  the  market  to  pieces 
haul  in  £30,000,  they  will  likely  give  £1,000  to  mis- 
sions. 

"  When  a  man  has  done  his  level  best,  and  been 
fairly  prudent,  and  has  worked  hard,  and  is  get- 
ting a  fair  connection,  and  everything  is  taken  away 
by  a  big,  unscrupulous,  speculative  firm,  which  sees 
a  chance  of  making  a  pile  at  the  ruin  of  half  a 
dozen  struggling  firms,  it's  a  little  hard." 

"  They  ought  to  be  put  in  jail ;  but  they'll  catch 
it  some  day ;  "  and  it  was  evident  Mrs.  Ransome, 
like  many  other  people  in  her  circumstances,  found 
much  satisfaction  from  the  belief  in  future  punish- 
ment. 

"  It's  apt  to  make  one  bitter,  too,"  Ransome  went 


1 84  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

on.  "  When  I  sat  opposite  old  Dodson  in  the  'bus 
this  afternoon — come  to  the  penny  'bus  now,  you 
see,  Queenie — looking  out  from  below  his  shaggy 
eyebrows  like  a  Scotch  terrier,  with  meanness  writ- 
ten over  his  shabby  clothes,  and  almost  heard  the 
gold  chinking  in  his  pockets,  and  thought  that  he 
could  save  our  home  and  secure  my  future  by  a 
cheque,  and  never  miss  the  money — suppose  he  lost 
it,  which  he  wouldn't  if  I  lived — I  declare,  I  could 
have  .  .  .  well,  I  did  not  feel  as  Christian  as 
Huddleston  would  desire." 

"  Bert,  have  you  ever  thought  what  we  would 
do  if  we  became  rich — how  we  would  send  flowers 
to  people  who  were  not  well  off,  and  let  them  use 
our  carriage,  and  send  overworked  teachers  and 
clerks  for  holidays,  and  .  .  ." 

"  Help  lame  dogs  in  cotton  over  stiles,  eh,  wifie  ? 
Yes,  I've  had  my  dreams  too.  I'd  go  in  for  the 
poor  children's  holiday  fund,  that  would  be  my  ex- 
travagance. But  we  are  no  better  than  other  peo- 
ple. And  were  you  never  afraid  that  we  would 
grow  selfish  and  pompous,  and  mean  and  pharisaical, 
like  Huddleston,  and  maybe  end  in  being  Dodsons?  " 

"  No,  no,  that  is  impossible !  "  cried  his  wife,  "  be- 
cause, for  one  thing,  we  have  loved,  and,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Dodson  never  was  loved,  poor  soul ;  and  if 
things  come  to  the  worst,  remember  there  is  a  good 
deal  left." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,  Queenie ;  run  over 
the  inventory,  and  I'll  check  you," 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          185 

"  First  of  all  there  is  you,  the  truest,  kindest, 
bravest  husband  in  Liverpool.  .  .  ." 

"  Stop ;  that  is  your  own  private  property,  and 
we  were  to  go  over  our  common  means;  besides, 
the  valuation  is  ninety  per  cent,  too  high." 

"  You  be  quiet.  And  there  are  two  children, 
whom  every  one  looks  at  in  the  street,  and  who  are 
the  sweetest  .  .  .  Nobody  hears  us,  so  it 
doesn't  matter,  and  you  know  they  are.  Wouldn't 
it  have  been  far  worse  if  we  had  lost  Reggie  when 
he  had  diphtheria?  Well,  we  have  him  and  Maud, 
and  they  never  looked  better." 

"  That's  true,  wifie ;  go  on ;  capital  is  mounting 
up." 

"  Then  there's  your  good  name,  which  has  never 
been  stained.  Nobody  says  you  are  mean,  or  hypo- 
critical, or  unmanly,  or  ...  anything  bad; 
and  if  ...  you  can't  pay  that  money  on  Mon- 
day, every  person  will  know  that  it  was  not  your 
fault,  and  that  you  will  repay  all  you  owe  some  day, 
if  you  can." 

"  Yes,  please  God,  wife,  we  will.  .  .  .  You 
think  too  much  of  me,  but  go  on." 

"  We  have  half  a  dozen  friends,  and,  although 
they're  not  rich,  they're  true;  and  if  we  have  to  go 
into  a  smaller  house  and  live  very  quietly,  they 
won't  mind;  they'll  just  come  closer,  won't  they?" 

"  Right  again ;  you  are  getting  on.  We've 
somewhere  about  £50,000  working  capital  now." 

"  We  have  our  books  and  our  music,  and    .    .    . 


186  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

five  years  of  love  and     .     .     .     spiritual  blessings 
one  doesn't  talk  about.     .     .     ." 

"  One  piece  of  property  wanting,  which  is  best  of 

all — yourself,  Queenie,  surely  the  cleverest,  loyalest 
» 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense  now,  Bert ;  and  are 
you  aware  that  it  is  past  eleven  o'clock?  I'll  turn 
out  the  gas  in  the  dining-room  if  you  will  see  that 
the  door  is  fastened." 

"  Here  is  a  letter  which  must  have  come  by  the 
last  post  and  been  forgotten ;  perhaps  it's  a  Christ- 
mas card  in  advance.  Let's  see.  Oh,  I  say,  you've 
left  me  in  darkness." 

"  Come  up  to  our  room ;  we  can  open  it  there ; 
very  likely  it's  a  bill.  Well?" 

"  I  say  .  .  .  Queenie  .  .  .  no,  it  can't 
be  a  hoax  .  .  .  nobody  would  be  so  cruel 
.  .  .  and  here's  an  enclosure  .  .  .  letter 
from  London  bankers  confirming  ...  sit 
down  here  beside  me ;  we'll  read  it  together  .  .  . 
so,  as  near  as  you  can,  and  your  arm  round  my 
neck  .  .  .  just  a  second  before  we  begin 
.  .  .  my  eyes  are  ...  all  right  now." 

"  LIVERPOOL,  December  22,  189 — . 
"  DEAR  SIR, — It  has  been  my  practice,  as  a  man 
engaged  for  many  years  in  commercial  pursuits, 
to  keep  a  watchful,  and,  I  hope,  not  unkindly  eye 
upon  young  firms  beginning  their  business  career 
in  Liverpool.  For  the  last  five  years  I  have  ob- 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON          187 

served  your  progress  with  much  interest,  and  you 
will  pardon  my  presumption  and  take  no  offence, 
when  I  express  my  satisfaction,  as  an  old  merchant, 
with  your  diligence,  caution,  ability,  and,  most  of 
all,  integrity,  to  which  all  bear  witness. 

"  I  was  therefore  greatly  grieved  to  learn  that 
your  firm  may  be  hardly  pressed  next  week,  and 
may  be  in  danger  of  stoppage — all  the  more  be- 
cause I  find  no  charge  of  folly  can  be  brought 
against  you,  but  that  you  are  the  indirect  vic- 
tims of  one  firm's  speculative  operations.  There 
is  no  one,  I  am  also  informed,  from  whom  you 
can  readily  obtain  the  temporary  assistance  you  re- 
quire and  are  morally  entitled  to  receive. 

"  The  only  satisfaction  I  have  in  life  is  using 
such  means  as  Providence  has  been  pleased  to  put 
into  my  hands  for  the  succour  of  people  who  are 
in  every  way  better  than  myself,  but  who  are  in 
some  kind  of  straits.  I  have  therefore  directed  my 
London  bankers  to  open  an  account  for  you  and  to 
put  £10,000  to  your  credit.  Upon  this  account  you 
will  be  pleased  to  draw  such  a  sum  as  will  tide  you 
over  the  present  crisis,  and  such  other  sums  as  will 
enable  you  to  extend  your  business  along  the  safe 
and  honourable  lines  you  have  hitherto  followed. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  repay  the  said  sum 
or  sums  to  the  same  account  as  you  may  be  able  to 
— no  interest  will  be  accepted — and  I  only  lay  one 
other  obligation  on  your  honour,  that  you  make  no 
endeavour  to  discover  my  name. 


i88  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

"  Be  pleased  to  accept  my  best  wishes  of  this  sea- 
son for  your  admirable  wife,  your  two  pleasing  chil- 
dren, and  my  confident  hope  for  your  final  and  large 
success  in  business. — I  remain,  your  faithful  friend, 

"  ZACCHEUS." 

"  Let  us  go  and  kiss  the  children,  hubbie,  and 
then  .  .  .  we  might  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  to- 
gether." 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         189 


"  A  respectable,  elderly  woman,  did  you  say, 
Marshall  ?  "  said  Mr.  Greatheart  in  his  room  at  the 
office ;  "  certainly,  bring  her  in.  Very  likely  a 
widow  wishing  to  get  her  son  admitted  to  the  Blue- 
coat  School,  or  some  poor  householder  in  trouble 
about  her  taxes."  For  to  this  man  came  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people  in  their  distresses,  and  to 
each  he  gave  patient  audience  and  practical  succour. 

"  You  don't  trouble  me.  If  I  can  be  of  any  use, 
nothing  will  please  me  better,"  he  said,  placing  a 
chair  and  making  a  kindly  fuss  to  cover  his  visitor's 
confusion.  "  Now  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about 
it."  That  was  why  the  respectable  poor  loved  him, 
from  the  Catholic  Irish  of  Scotland  Road  to  the 
Orangemen  of  Toxteth. 

"  Is  it  your  husband  or  your  son  you  are  so  anx- 
ious about  ?  " — for  she  was  much  agitated.  "  I 
notice  that  a  woman  hardly  ever  comes  about  her- 
self. It's  we  men  who  are  selfish,  not  the  women." 

"  No,  it's  neither,  for  I  am  an  unmarried  woman. 
It's  about  my  master,  whom  I  believe  you  know, 
sir,  Mr.  Dodson." 

"  Samuel  Dodson,  you  mean ;  I  should  think  so ! 
Have  known  him  for  fifty  years — since  we  served 


190  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

our  time  together  in  Palmer's  shipping  office. 
What,  is  he  ill?" 

"  He's  dead  .  .  .  this  morning.  You'll  ex- 
cuse me,  I  was  his  housekeeper  for  near  thirty 
year,  and  .  .  .  I'm  a  little  upset." 

"  Good  gracious !  No  wonder.  Maria  Wilkins, 
did  you  say?  .  .  .  You  may  well  be  upset. 
And  thirty  years  with  him !  Tell  me  how  this  hap- 
pened, for  we've  heard  nothing  in  the  city.  He 
couldn't  have  been  ill  long." 

"  No,  sir,  he  was  never  ill  at  all — not  what  you 
would  say  proper;  but  I've  seen  him  failin*  for 
some  time — gettin'  thin  like  and  growin'  down — 
and  last  night  he  was  that  white  and  shaky,  that 
I  wanted  him  to  see  a  doctor.  But  no,  he  wouldn't. 
If  it  had  been  me  or  the  girl,  he  would  have  had 
a  doctor  when  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  us, 
he  was  that  concerned  about  other  people;  but  for 
himself  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Greatheart  nodded — indicating  that  Mr.  Dod- 
son's  unselfish  character  was  well  known  to  him. 

" '  No,  no,  Maria,'  says  he,  '  a  doctor  can  do  no 
good  to  me.  I'm  a  tough  old  fellow  ' — speaking 
that  way  to  me,  being  long  with  him — '  I'll  be  all 
right  to-morrow.'  But  I  made  bold  to  put  a  glass 
of  brandy  in  his  room,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  ring 
the  bell  if  he  was  unwell — he  was  not  easily  man- 
aged— and  that  was  all  I  could  do,  sir." 

Her  hearer  was  of  opinion  that  from  what  he 
knew  of  Mr.  Dodson's  native  obstinacy,  Maria  Wil- 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         191 

kins  had  done  all  in  the  power  of  mortal  woman, 
and  possibly,  more,  than  could  have  been  accom- 
plished by  any  man. 

"  Twice  during  the  night  I  rose  and  listened 
at  his  door — his  face,  when  he  said  good-night, 
lyin'  heavy  on  me,  so  to  say — and  I  heard  nothing ; 
but  when  he  didn't  answer  in  the  mornin'  I  took 
it  on  me  to  open  the  door.  Mr.  Dodson  was  a-sit- 
tin'  up  in  his  bed,  and  at  the  sight  of  his  face  I 
knew  how  it  was,  havin'  seen  death  many  times. 
My  old  master  .  .  .  was  gone,"  and  the  house- 
keeper yielded  to  her  feelings. 

"  Dear,  dear !  So  Sam  Dodson  is  gone ;  an  able 
and  successful  merchant,  one  who  always  met  his 
obligations,  and  whose  word  was  as  good  as  his 
bond ;  he  had  a  warmer  heart  than  any  person  knew. 
I've  seen  a  look  in  his  face  at  a  time,  and  am  sure 
that  he  did  good  in  his  own  way." 

"  God  bless  you  for  that,  sir !  but  it's  what  I  could 
have  looked  for  from  you,  if  I  may  say  it  without 
offence.  And  you  never  spoke  a  truer  word,  and 
that  I  can  testify  as  has  lived  with  master  for  a 
lifetime,  and  could  tell  the  difference  between  the 
outside  and  the  inside." 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  saw  the  real  man,  Maria,  but  he 
was  sometimes  .  .  .  well,  hidden  from  the  pub- 
lic." 

"  He  had  his  peculiarities,  and  'oo  hasn't  I  say  ? 
Now,  my  wages  when  I  came  to  him  was  just  four- 
teen pounds,  and  they're  just  fourteen  yet;  but 


i92  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

every  Christmas,  for  many  a  year,  master  slipped 
a  ten-pound  note  into  my  hand.  '  Put  that  into 
your  bank,  Maria/  he  would  say,  '  and  never  tell 
anybody  you've  got  it.' 

"  As  for  food,  he  was  aggravatin',  for  he  would 
have  nothing  as  was  not  plain,  and  he  would  check 
the  books  to  a  ha'penny;  but  if  you  was  ill,  why, 
he  would  bring  home  grapes  with  his  own  hand. 
We  dare  not  for  our  lives  give  a  morsel  to  beggars 
at  the  door,  but  if  he  heard  of  a  poor  family, 
nothin'  would  serve  him  but  he  would  go  and  find 
out  all  about  them." 

"  That's  my  Dodson,  just  as  I  imagined  him," 
cried  Mr.  Greatheart ;  "  tell  me  more,  Maria ;  it's 
excellent,  every  word." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  let  any  person  know 
he  was  givin'  help?  Not  he;  and  he  was  artful, 
was  master.  Why,  I've  known  him  send  me  with 
money  to  a  clergyman,  that  he  might  give  it,  and 
his  words  were,  '  No  name,  Maria,  or  we  part ;  just 
a  citizen  of  Liverpool.'  " 

"  Dodson  all  over !  shrewd  and  unassuming,  and 
full  of  charity.  Have  you  anything  else  to  tell, 
Maria?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  do  not  know  for  certain,  and  it  was 
not  for  me  to  spy  on  my  master,  but  I'm  much 
mistaken  if  many  a  one  in  the  better  class  was  not 
the  better  of  Mr.  Dodson  in  their  troubles." 

"  How  do  you  think  that  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Great- 
heart  in  huge  delight. 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         193 

"  I've  seen  him  read  a  letter  maybe  six  times, 
and  he  would  wipe  his  eyes  through  pleasure  as  I 
took  it.  You  wouldn't  believe,  maybe,  as  master 
could  be  like  that." 

"  I  do,  Maria.  I  declare  it's  what  I  expected. 
And  what  then  ?  " 

"  He  would  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
speak  to  himself,  and  read  another  bit,  and  rub  his 
hands  .  .  ." 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there,  Maria." 

"  And  he  would  carry  a  letter  like  that  in  his 
pocket  for  days,  and  then  he  would  put  it  carefully 
in  the  fire;  but  I  saw  him  take  it  out,  half-burned, 
and  read  a  corner  again  before  he  burned  that 
letter." 

"  Maria,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  obliged 
I  am  to  you  for  coming  to  me,  and  giving  me  such 
a  touching  account  of  your  dear  master.  Now,  is 
there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  this  loss  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  me,  sir,  that  I  should  have  been 
taking  up  your  time  like  this,  and  you  a  magis- 
trate, and  never  told  you  what  brought  me!  It's 
more  than  a  month  past  that  master  said  to  me, 
'  Maria,  if  anything  happens  to  me  go  to  Mr.  Great- 
heart's  office,  and  give  him  my  keys,  and  ask  him 
to  open  my  desk.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  he's  sure 
to  come.'  " 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  That  was  most  generous  of 
him,  and  I  appreciate  it  highly.  I  will  come  in- 
stantly, and  shall  bring  a  lawyer  with  me,  a  kind- 


i94  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

hearted  and  able  man.  Good-bye  for  the  present, 
Maria;  you  have  fulfilled  your  charge,  as  I  believe 
you  have  all  your  duty,  excellently  .  .  .  excel- 
lently." 

"  You  see,  Welsby,"  as  they  went  up  to  the  house, 
"  Dodson  had  left  his  firm,  and  had  few  friends, 
perhaps  none — a  reserved  man  about  himself,  but  a 
true  man  at  the  bottom." 

"  So  you  have  always  said,  Mr.  Greatheart. 
We'll  know  now ;  my  experience  as  a  lawyer  proves 
that,  as  a  rule,  a  man's  papers  reveal  him,  and  there 
are  some  curious  surprises." 

"  If  you  look  through  that  safe,  and  note  the  con- 
tents, Welsby,  I'll  read  this  letter  addressed  to  me. 
I  gather  that  I  must  be  executor,  and  there  seems 
to  be  no  lawyer ;  very  like  Dodson,  very— do  every- 
thing for  himself." 

"  LIVERPOOL,  April  i$th,  188 — . 
"  BARNABAS  GREATHEART,  ESQ. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — You  will  peruse  this  letter  after 
my  death,  and  you  will  be  pleased  to  consider  it  as 
intended  for  your  eyes  alone,  since  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  a  confession. 

"  My  early  career  was  a  continuous  struggle  with 
narrow  and  arduous  circumstances,  and  I  suffered 
certain  disappointments  at  the  hands  of  friends 
which  I  considered  undeserved.  In  consequence 
of  these  experiences  I  grew  penurious,  cynical, 
merciless,  hopeless,  and,  let  me  say  it  plainly,  a 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         195 

sour,  hard  man,  hating  my  neighbours,  and  despised 
of  them.  May  the  Almighty  forgive  me ! 

"  This  year  in  which  I  write,  a  great  change 
has  come  over  me,  and  my  heart  has  been  softened 
and  touched  at  last  with  human  sympathy.  The 
force  which  has  affected  me  is  not  any  book  nor 
sermon,  but  your  example  of  goodness  and  your 
charity  towards  all  men.  In  spite  of  the  general 
judgment  on  me,  which  has  been  fully  merited,  I 
have  seen  that  you  do  not  shun  me,  but  rather  have 
gone  out  of  your  way  to  countenance  me,  and  I 
have  heard  that  you  speak  kindly  of  me.  It  is  not 
my  nature  to  say  much;  it  is  not  yours  to  receive 
praise;  but  I  wish  you  to  know  you  have  made  me 
a  new  man. 

"  It  seemed  to  me,  however,  dangerous  that  I 
should  begin  to  distribute  my  means  openly  among 
charities,  as  I  was  inclined  to  do,  since  I  might  pass 
from  hardness  to  pride  and  be  charged  with  osten- 
tation, as  I  had  been  once  with  miserliness,  with 
sad  justice  in  both  cases. 

"  So  it  came  to  me  that,  still  retaining  and  main- 
taining my  character  for  meanness — as  a  punish- 
ment for  my  past  ill-doing,  and  a  check  on  vanity — I 
would  gradually  use  my  capital  in  the  private  and 
anonymous  aid  of  respectable  people  who  are  pass- 
ing through  material  adversity,  and  the  help  of  my 
native  city,  so  that  my  left  hand  should  not  know 
what  my  right  was  doing.  This  plan  I  have  now, 
at  this  date,  pursued  for  six  months,  and  hope  to 


196  THE  RIGHT  HAND 

continue  to  my  death,  and  I  did  not  know  so  great 
joy  could  be  tasted  by  any  human  being  as  God  has 
given  to  me.  And  now,  to  all  the  goodness  you 
have  shown  me,  will  you  add  one  favour,  to  wind 
up  my  affairs  as  follows: — 

"  (i)   Provide  for  my  housekeeper  generously. 

"  (2)  Give  a  liberal  donation  to  the  other  servant. 

"  (3)  Bury  me  quietly,  without  intimation  to  any 
one. 

"  (4)  Distribute  all  that  remains,  after  paying 
every  debt,  as  you  please,  in  the  help  of  widows, 
orphans,  and  young  men. 

"  (5)  Place  a  packet,  marked  'gilt-edged  securi- 
ties,' in  my  coffin. 

"  And  consider  that,  among  all  your  good  works, 
this  will  have  a  humble  place,  that  you  saved  the 
soul  of — Your  grateful  friend, 

"  SAMUEL  DODSON/' 

"  What  Dodson  has  done  with  his  money,  Mr. 
Greatheart,  I  don't  know ;  all  the  securities  together 
don't  amount  to  £5,000.  He  seems  to  have  been 
living  on  an  annuity." 

"  His  wealth  is  here,  Welsby,  in  this  packet  of 
cancelled  cheques,  two  hundred  and  eighty-seven, 
which  go  with  him  to  the  other  side ;  and  I  tell  you, 
Welsby,  I  know  no  man  who  has  invested  his 
money  so  securely  as  Samuel  Dodson.  See,  read 
that  top  check." 

"  To    Goldbeater,    London,    £10,000.      Why    the 


OF  SAMUEL  DODSON         197 

draft  I  got  for  playgrounds  was  on  that  bank,  and 
the  date  corresponds.  Curious." 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  this 
man  we  slanged  and  .  .  .  looked  down  on 
was  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  Zaccheus  was  Sam  Dodson." 


"  Fven  seen  him  read  a  letter  maybe  six  times, 
a  citizen  of  Liverpool/  " 


SAVED   BY   FAITH 


SAVED  BY  FAITH 


"  So  you  have  agreed  to  accept  seven-and-six- 
pence  in  the  pound  from  Hatchard  ?  "  Oxley  said 
in  his  slow,  quiet  manner,  as  he  smoked  with  his 
two  friends  after  luncheon  at  the  Club.  "  I  could 
not  attend  the  meeting,  but  I  hear  that  the  affairs 
showed  badly." 

"  Yes,  we  took  the  sum  he  offered,  and  of  course 
it  would  have  done  no  good  to  put  him  in  the 
Bankruptcy  Court,  as  far  as  the  dividend  is  con- 
cerned :  very  likely  we  should  only  have  netted 
half-a-crown ;  but  I  had  a  good  mind  to  refuse 
a  composition."  And  in  his  excitement  Beazley 
established  himself  for  oratorical  purposes  on  the 
hearthrug, — he  had  recently  taken  to  municipal 
politics. 

"  You  mean  that  Hatchard  has  acted  foolishly, 
and  ought  not  to  have  got  into  such  a  hole.  I 
suppose  you  are  right:  Tommy  was  always  a 
sanguine  chap." 

"  Sanguine  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Oxley,  and 
I  fancy  you  know  that  there's  more  than  want  of 

20 1 


202  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

judgment  at  Hatchard's  door.  Of  course  the 
longest-headed  men  in  the  corn  trade  may  make 
a  mistake  and  be  caught  by  a  falling  market,  but 
that  is  no  reason  why  a  fellow  should  take  in  every 
friend  he  could  lay  hands  on.  What  do  you  say, 
Macfarlane  ?  " 

That  most  phlegmatic  and  silent  of  Scots  never 
said  anything  unless  speech  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary ;  and  as  the  proposition  that  a  man  ought  not 
to  cheat  his  friends  was  one  no  person  could  deny, 
Macfarlane  gave  no  sign. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  it  is  a  rather  bad  case,"  Oxley 
admitted  with  reluctance,  "  but  I'm  sorry  for 
Tommy :  when  a  man's  at  his  wit's  end  he's  apt 
to  ...  forget  himself  in  fact,  and  do  things 
he  would  be  the  first  to  condemn  at  other  times. 
A  man  loses  his  moral  presence  of  mind." 

Macfarlane  indicated,  after  consideration,  his 
agreement. 

"  That  sounds  very  fine,  Oxley,"  burst  in  Beaz- 
ley,  "  but  it's  very  dangerous  doctrine  and  would 
cover  some  curious  transactions.  Hatchard  knew 
quite  well  that  when  he  was  hopelessly  bankrupt 
he  ought  not  to  have  borrowed  a  thousand  from 
Macfarlane  and  you  and  five  hundred  from  me: 
our  business  losses  were  enough." 

"  Had  none,"  murmured  Macfarlane  to  himself. 

"  I  was  so  angry,"  continued  Beazley,  "  that  I 
got  hold  of  him  afterwards  in  Fenwick  Street  and 
gave  him  as  sound  a  talking  to  as  ever  a  man  got 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  203 

in  this  city :  he'll  not  forget  it  in  a  hurry.     You  see 
he  is  a  friend,  and  that  makes  me  sore." 

"  Can  you  give  us  an  idea  what  you  said  ? " 
inquired  Oxley  drily,  while  Macfarlane  showed  that 
he  was  listening. 

"  Well,  I  said  various  things ;  but  the  gist  was 
that  his  friends  were  ashamed  of  him — not  about 
the  cash,  you  know,  but  about  the  conduct,  and 
that  he  was  little  better  than  a  swindler:  yes,  I 
did." 

Macfarlane  smoked  furiously. 

"  No,  Oxley,  he  made  no  reply.  Not  one  word 
of  defence:  he  simply  turned  round  and  walked 
away.  I  suppose  you  think  that  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  so  hard  on  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  doubt  you  did  what  seemed  right, 
and  Hatchard  has  not  been  quite  straight;  but  I 
now  understand  what  I  saw  two  hours  ago,  and 
what  gave  me  a  shock.  You  favoured  him  with 
your  mind  about  eleven,  I  should  guess  ?  Yes : 
then  at  twelve  he  came  out  of  a  restaurant  in  Dale 
Street  as  if  he  had  been  drinking.  That  is  the  first 
time  Hatchard  ever  did  that  kind  of  thing,  I  believe, 
but  it  will  not  be  the  last :  his  face  was  quite  changed 
— half  woe-begone  and  half  desperate." 

"  If  Thomas  takes  to  tasting  " — Macfarlane  was 
much  moved — "  it's  all  over  with  him :  he's  such 
a  soft-hearted  chap." 

"  Nonsense,  you're  making  too  much  of  it ;  but 
I  was  a  trifle  sharp,  perhaps;  he's  been  very  prq- 


204  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

yoking,  and  any  other  man  would  have  said  the 
same  except  you  two  fellows,  and  the  one  of  you 
is  so  charitable  that  he  would  find  an  excuse  for 
a  pickpocket,  and  the  other  is  so  cannie  that  he 
can't  make  up  his  mind  to  say  anything." 

After  which  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Yes,"  began  Oxley  again,  falling  into  ancient 
history,  "  he  has  gone  off  form  a  bit — the  best 
may  do  so  at  a  time — but  Tommy  wasn't  half  a 
bad  fellow  once:  he  got  a  study  at  Soundbergh 
before  me,  and  he  was  very  decent  with  it,  letting 
me  do  '  prep.'  in  it  before  exams. ;  and  I  never 
counted  him  sidey,  did  you,  B.?" 

"  I  should  think  not ;  I'll  say  that  for  him  at 
any  rate,  there  wasn't  one  scrap  of  humbug  in 
Tommy:  why,  he  was  a  prefect  when  I  was  in  the 
fourth,  and  he  didn't  mind  although  a  chap  'ragged' 
and  chaffed  him ;  he  was  the  j oiliest  '  pre.'  in  the 
whole  school.  It  was  perhaps  rather  hard  lines 
to  slang  him  to-day, — I  half  wish  I  hadn't." 

"  If  Tommy  got  a  grub-box  from  home  every 
chap  in  Buttery's  house  knew," — Oxley  was  bent  on 
reminiscences, — "  it  was  shared  round  in  three  days, 
and  his  raspberry  jam  was  not  to  be  despised.  I 
hear  him  yet :  '  All  right,  Ox.,  dig  in,  there's  lots 
left/  Now  there's  Byles,  who  makes  speeches 
about  hospitals :  he  was  mean  if  you  please." 

"Mean  ain't  the  word  for  Byles,"  and  in  his 
enthusiasm  Freddie  Beazley  dropped  into  school 
slang,  which  no  public-schoolboy  ever  forgets,  and 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  205 

which  lasts  from  generation  to  generation,  like  the 
speech  of  the  Gypsies :  "  Byles  was  a  beastly  gut, 
and  a  sneak  too ;  why,  for  all  his  cheek  now  he  isn't 
fit  to  black  Tommy's  shoes.  Tommy  wasn't  what 
you  would  call '  pie,'  but  he  was  as  straight  as  a  die. 
I'd  give  ten  pounds  not  to  have  called  him  that 
word  to-day."  Freddie  was  breaking  down. 

"  Poor  old  Tommy ! "  went  on  Oxley :  "  one 
never  expected  him  to  come  such  a  cropper;  he 
was  a  good  all-round  man — cricket,  football,  sports, 
Tommy  did  well  for  his  house;  he  was  a  double- 
colour  man." 

"  Do  ye  mind  the  ten  miles,  lads  ?  "  and  Mac- 
farlane  chuckled. 

"  Rather,"  and  Freddie  could  not  sit  still :  "  he 
did  it  in  one  hour  twelve  minutes  and  was  it  fifteen 
seconds? " 

"Thirteen  and  three-fifths  seconds."  Macfarlane 
spoke  with  decision. 

"  And  he  could  have  walked  back  to  Buttery's, 
as  if  he  had  never  run  a  yard ;  but  didn't  the  fellows 
carry  him  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  leg  myself."  Macfarlane  was  growing 
loquacious. 

"  Yes,  and  he  didn't  swagger  or  brag  about  it," 
— Oxley  took  up  the  running, — "  not  he,  but  was 
just  as  civil  as  if  he  had  won  some  footling  little 
race  at  the  low-country  schools,  where  they  haven't 
a  hill  within  twenty  miles,  instead  of  running  round 
Baughfell  in  the  Soundbergh  ten-mile." 


206  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

"  What  did  old  Tommy  do  it  for?  "  and  Freddie 
Beazley  almost  wept  at  the  thought  that  the  crack 
of  Soundbergh  had  played  foul :  "  it  couldn't  be 
money;  he  was  never  selfish — as  open-handed  a 
chap  as  ever  I  saw." 

"  Wife  and  kids,"  answered  Macfarlane,  smok- 
ing thoughtfully. 

"The  Scot  has  it,"  said  Oxley.  "Tommy 
doesn't  care  one  straw  for  himself,  but  he  wanted, 
I  take  it,  to  keep  that  dear  little  wife  of  his  comfort- 
able and  get  a  good  education  for  his  boys,  and  so 
he  got  deeper  and  deeper,  trying  to  retrieve  himself 
for  their  sakes.  Mind  you,  I  don't  defend  him, 
but  that  was  his  excuse ;  and  now  Tommy  has  gone 
under." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,  boys,"  and  Beazley's  face 
flushed.  "  And  I  say,  here  are  three  of  us :  why 
shouldn't  we  join  and — and — tighten  the  rope  and 
haul  Tommy  on  his  feet  again  ?  " 

Macfarlane  took  the  briar  root  out  of  his  mouth 
and  regarded  Freddie  with  admiration. 

"We  were  all  in  the  same  house,  and  Tommy 
likes  us,  and  we  could  do  ...  that  sort  of 
thing  when  he  wouldn't  take  it  from  others;  and 
I  say,  it  would  be  a  jolly  decent  thing  to  do." 

"  You're  all  right,  Freddie," — Oxley  was  evi- 
dently pleased — "  and  we're  with  you  "  ("  shoulder 
to  shoulder,"  said  Macfarlane,  lighting  his  pipe 
with  ostentatious  care).  "  Now  the  first  step  is  to 
let  Tommy  know  that  we  have  not  turned  our  backs 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  207 

on  him :  my  idea  is  that  if  he  knows  we  three  are 
going  to  stand  by  him  he'll  not  throw  up  the 
sponge." 

"  Look  here,"  cried  Beazley,  "  I'll  go  round  this 
minute,  and  I'll  beg  his  pardon  for  what  I  said,  and 
I'll  tell  him  that  we  haven't  forgotten  the  old  days 
among  the  hills,  and  that  we  know  he's  a  white  man, 
and  ...  in  fact  he'll  take  the  cup  yet." 

"  That  will  help  mightily ;  and  now  let  us  make 
up  our  plans,"  said  Oxley. 

And  that  was  how  three  men  joined  in  a  con- 
spiracy for  the  business  and  social  and  personal 
salvation  of  Thomas  Hatchard. 


208  SAVED  BY  FAITH 


II 


"  How  late  you  are,  Tom — eight  o'clock — and 
how  tired  you  look,  poor  fellow!  I've  been  think- 
ing about  you  all  day.  Was  it  very  trying  this 
morning,  or  were  they  nice?  They  ought  to  have 
been,  for  everybody  must  know  that  it  wasn't  your 
fault." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  everybody  could  know  that, 
Amy  dear,  for  I  don't  know  it  myself,  and  some 
men  have  good  reason  to  know  the  opposite.  Well, 
yes,  I  was  .  .  .  rather  sick  at  the  meeting, 
and  worse  afterwards." 

"  Did  they  dare  to  insult  you,  Tom  ?  If  they  had 
had  one  spark  of  gentlemanly  feeling  they  would 
have  pitied  you.  Do  you  mean  that  they  .  .  . 
said  things?  Tell  me,  for  I  want  to  share  every 
sorrow  with  you,  darling." 

"  One  man  was  very  hard  on  me,  and  I  didn't 
expect  it  from  him — no,  I  won't  tell  you  his 
name,  for  he  behaved  very  handsomely  in  the  end. 
Perhaps  I  didn't  deserve  all  the  sharp  words,  but 
I  am  sure  I  haven't  deserved  any  of  the  kind  words 
that  were  said  before  the  day  was  done.  But 
never  mind  about  me  just  now:  tell  me  how  you 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  209 

got  on.  Wasn't  it  your  visiting  day?  did  .  .  . 
any  one  call  ?  " 

"  So  you  were  thinking  about  me  in  all  your 
troubles !  " — his  wife  put  her  arm  round  Hatchard's 
neck — "  and  you  were  afraid  I  should  be  deserted 
because  you  were  victimised  by  those  speculators! 
Now  confess." 

"  Well,  you  know,  Amy,  society  is  not  very 
merciful,  and  I  think  women  are  the  crudest  of  all. 
What  hits  a  man,  if  he  is  unfortunate,  or  ... 
worse,  is  that  his  poor  wife  is  made  to  suffer.  If 
her  husband  has  done  ...  I  mean  has  acted 
foolishly,  well,  say,  has  lost  money,  his  wife  is 
neglected  and  cut  and  made  to  feel  miserable.  It's 
a  beastly  shame,  and  I  was  afraid  that " 

"  I  would  be  sitting  all  alone  to-day,  because  we 
are  poor.  Do  you  know,  Tom,  I  was  just  a  tiny 
bit  nervous  too,  although  I  would  not  have  told 
you  this  morning  for  worlds.  And  now  I  have 
splendid  news  to  give  you:  our  friends  are  as 
true  as  steel.  Now  answer  a  question,  Tom,  to 
see  whether  you  and  I  agree  about  the  difference 
between  acquaintances  and  friends.  Mention  the 
names  of  the  three  families  you  would  expect  to 
stand  by  us  in  our  trial." 

"  The  Oxleys,  of  course,  wife,  and  ...  I 
would  have  said  the  Beazleys,  and,  let  me  see,  yes, 
the  Macfarlanes,  although  their  manner  doesn't 
allow  them  to  show  what  they  feel.  Am  I 

right?" 


210  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

"  To  a  man  (and  woman),  they  all  called  to- 
day— the  women,  I  mean :  I  daresay  the  men  called 
on  you.  And  they  all  said  the  nicest  things,  and 
what  is  best  they  said  the  nicest  things  about  you : 
yes,  they  did,  and  if  you  doubt  my  word  we  shall 
separate  ...  do  you  really  think  I  would 
chaff  to-day? 

"  Sit  there,  just  where  I  can  lay  my  head  on  your 
shoulder,  and  I  shall  describe  everything.  It  was 
half-past  two  when  I  began  to  watch  the  clock  and 
wonder  whether  any  one  would  come:  have  other 
people  had  the  same  feeling?  About  a  quarter  to 
three  the  bell  rang,  and  my  heart  beat :  who  would 
it  be?  It  was  nothing — a  tax  paper;  and  I  began 
to  think  what  I  would  have  done  if  the  same  thing 
had  happened  to  one  of  our  friends — how  I  would 
have  simply  rushed  along  and  been  in  the  house 
the  first  decent  minute  after  lunch,  and  how  I 
would " 

"  I  know  you  would,  Pet,  and  that  is  why  they 
did  it  to  you.  Well,  drive  on." 

"  Exactly  at  eight  minutes  to  three — oh,  I  know 
the  time  to-day  without  mistake — -the  door  opened, 
and  in  came  Mrs.  Macfarlane;  and  do  you  know 
what  she  did  ?  " 

"  She  didn't !  "  cried  Hatchard— "  not  kissed 
you?" 

"  Yes,  she  did,  and  a  real  kiss ;  and  she  took  me 
in  her  arms,  and  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes,  and — and 
•  .  .  I  cried  for  a  minute ;  I  couldn't  help  it,  and 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  211 

it  was  quite  a  comfort.  She  hadn't  said  a  word  all 
this  time,  and  that  was  just  right,  wasn't  it?" 

"  I'll  never  say  a  word  against  the  Scots'  manner 
again,"  said  Tom  huskily. 

"  But  she  spoke  quite  beautifully  afterwards,  and 
told  me  of  some  trials  no  one  knows,  which  they 
had  ten  years  ago,  and  how  they  had  never  loved 
one  another  so  much  before.  When  reticent 
people  give  you  their  confidence  it  touches  your 
heart,  and  we  used  to  think  her  voice  harsh,  and 
to  laugh  at  her  accent." 

"  God  forgive  me !  "  said  Thomas :  "  I'm  a  fool." 

"  She  said :  '  You  know  how  quiet  Ronald  is,  and 
how  he  hardly  ever  gets  enthusiastic.  Well,  it 
would  have  done  you  good  to  have  heard  him  speak 
about  Mr.  Hatchard  this  morning.  He  said ' ' 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Amy — it  .  .  .  hurts ;  but 
I'm  grateful  all  the  same,  and  will  never  forget  it. 
And  who  came  next  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Oxley ;  and  what  do  you  think  ?  We  are 
to  have  their  house  at  Hoylake  for  August,  so  the 
chicks  will  have  their  holiday.  Mr.  Oxley  has  been 
quite  cast  down,  she  says,  about  you,  for  he  has 
such  a  respect " 

"  It's  good  of  them  to  think  about  the  children, 
but  never  mind  about  me." 

"  You  are  very  unfeeling,  Tom,  to  stop  me  at  the 
best  bits,  when  I  had  saved  them  up  and  committed 
them  to  memory:  perhaps  you  would  get  vain, 
however,  and  become  quite  superior.  What  do 


ai2  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

you  think  of  your  '  kindness/  and  your  '  generosity,' 
and  your  '  popularity/  and  your  '  straightness '  ? 
You  are  shivering :  are  you  cold  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  but  you  haven't  told  me  if  Mrs.  Beaz- 
ley  was  kind  to  you :  did  she  call  between  four  and 
five?" 

"  Yes :  how  did  you  know  the  hour  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  ...  guessed,  because  she  .  .  . 
was  last,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  She  apologised  for  being  so  late ;  indeed,  she 
was  afraid  that  she  might  not  get  round  at  all,  but 
I'm  so  glad  she  came,  for  no  one  was  more  glowing 
about  you :  I  saw,  of  course,  that  she  was  just 
repeating  Mr.  Beazley's  opinion,  for  every  one  can 
see  how  he  admires  .  .  . 

"  Tom,  you  are  very  ungrateful,  and  for  a  pun- 
ishment I'll  not  tell  you  another  word.  What  is 
wrong?  has  any  one  injured  you?  Was  it  Mr. 
Beazley  ?  " 

"  Beazley  said  kinder  things  in  my  office  to  me,  in 
difficult  circumstances  too,  than  I  ever  got  from  any 
man:  some  day,  Amy,  I'll  tell  you  what  he  said, 
but  not  now — I  cannot — and  he  spent  two  hours 
canvassing  for  business  to  start  me  as  a  corn  broker, 
and  he  ...  got  it." 

"  It  could  not  be  Mr.  Oxley." 

"  Oxley  has  given  me  a  cargo  to  dispose  of,  and 
I  never  had  any  of  his  broking  before ;  and  he  told 
me  that  some  of  my  old  friends  were  going  to 
•  .  .  to  ...  in  fact,  see  me  through  this 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  213 

strait,  speaking  a  good  word  for  me  and  putting 
things  in  my  way. 

"  Yes,  of  course  Macfarlane  came  to  the  office, 
and  said  nothing  for  fifteen  minutes:  just  gripped 
my  hand  and  smoked,  and  then  he  rose,  and  as  he 
was  leaving,  he  merely  mentioned  that  Beazley  and 
Oxley  had  become  securities  for  £5,000  at  the 
bank ;  he  is  in  it,  too,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  How  grateful  we  ought  to  be,  Tom  dear ;  and 
how  proud  I  am  of  you! — for  it's  your  character 
has  affected  every  person,  because  you  are  so  hon- 
ourable and  high-minded.  Tom,  something  is 
wrong ;  oh,  I  can't  bear  it :  don't  cry  .  .  .  you 
are  overstrung  ...  lie  down  on  the  couch, 
and  I'll  bathe  your  forehead  with  eau  de  Co- 
logne." 

"  No,  I  am  not  ill,  and  I  don't  deserve  any 
petting;  if  you  knew  how  mean  I  have  been  you 
would  never  speak  to  me  again.  If  they  had 
scolded  me  I  would  not  have  cared;  but  I  can't 
bear  their  kindness. 

"  Amy,  you  must  not  send  for  the  doctor,  else 
you  will  put  me  to  shame ;  my  mind  is  quite  right, 
and  it  isn't  overwork:  it's  .  .  .  conscience: 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  your  husband,  or  the  friend 
of  these  men." 

"  You  will  break  my  heart  if  you  talk  in  this  way. 
You  unworthy!  when  you  are  the  kindest,  truest, 
noblest  man  in  all  the  world — don't  say  a  word — 
and  everybody  thinks  so,  and  you  must  let  us  judge. 


2i4  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

Now  rest  here,  and  I'll  get  a  nice  little  supper  for 
you,"  and  his  wife  kissed  him  again  and  again. 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  undeceive  her,"  Hatchard 
said  to  himself  when  she  was  gone ;  "  she  believes 
in  me,  and  those  fellows  believe  in  me — Freddie 
more  than  anybody,  after  all  he  said ;  and  please 
God  they  will  not  be  disappointed  in  the  end." 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  215 


III 


"  You've  got  here  before  me,  Mac.,"  cried  Fred- 
die Beazley,  bursting  into  Oxley's  private  room, 
"  and  I  simply  scooted  round.  Oh,  I  say,  you've 
broken  every  bone  in  my  hand,  you  great  Scotch 
ruffian:  take  the  ruler  out  of  his  fist,  Ox.,  for 
heaven's  sake,  or  else  he'll  brain  us. 

"  Ox.,  you  old  scoundrel,  read  that  letter  aloud. 
Mac.  wasn't  a  creditor — he  wishes  he  was  this  day 
— and  he  doesn't  know  it  verbatim,  and  I'm  not 
sure  about  a  word  or  two.  Stand  up,  old  man,  and 
do  the  thing  properly.  There  now,  we're  ready." 

July  7,  1897. 
"DEAR  SIR,— 

"  It  will  be  in  your  recollection  that  in  July,  1887, 
I  was  obliged  to  make  a  composition  with  my 
creditors  while  trading  as  a  corn  merchant  under 
the  style  of  Thomas  Hatchard  &  Co.,  and  that  they 
were  good  enough  to  accept  the  sum  of  seven  shil- 
lings and  sixpence  in  the  pound. 

"  Immediately  thereafter,  as  you  may  be  aware, 
I  began  business  as  a  corn  broker,  and  owing  to 
the  kind  assistance  of  certain  of  my  creditors  and 
other  friends  have  had  considerable  success. 


216  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

"Having  made  a  careful  examination  of  my  affairs, 
I  find  that  I  can  now  afford  to  pay  the  balance  of 
twelve  shillings  and  sixpence  which  is  morally  due 
to  my  creditors  of  1887,  and  it  affords  me  much 
personal  satisfaction  to  discharge  this  obligation. 

"  I  therefore  beg  to  enclose  a  cheque  for  the 
amount  owing  to  you,  with  5  per  cent,  compound 
interest,  and  with  sincere  gratitude  for  your  con- 
sideration ten  years  ago. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  remain, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 
"  THOMAS  HATCHARD." 

"  Isn't  that  great,  young  gentlemen  ? "  and 
Beazley  took  a  turn  round  the  room :  "  it's  the 
finest  thing  done  in  Liverpool  in  our  time.  Tommy 
has  come  in  again  an  easy  first  on  the  ten  miles — 
just  skipped  round  Baughfell :  there's  nothing  like 
the  old  school  for  rearing  hardy  fellows  with  plenty 
of  puff  in  them  for  a  big  hill." 

"  Thomas  'ill  be  a  proud  man  the  night,"  re- 
marked Macfarlane,  "  and  his  wife  will  be  lifted." 

"  What  about  the  Hatchard  securities  and  en- 
couragement company  ?  isn't  it  a  booming  concern, 
and  aren't  the  three  men  lucky  dogs  who  took 
founder's  shares?  Oxley,  old  chap,"  and  Freddie 
grew  serious,  "  it  was  you  who  put  Tommy  on  his 
legs,  and  helped  him  on  to  this  big  thing." 

"  Nonsense !  we  all  had  a  share  in  the  idea ;  and 
now  that  I  remember,  it  was  you,  Beazley.  who 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  217 

sang  his  praises  that  day  till  Macfarlane  allowed 
his  pipe  to  go  out,  and  I  had  to  join  the  chorus. 
Isn't  that  so,  Mac.  ?  " 

Macfarlane  was  understood  to  give  judgment  of 
strict  impartiality — that  the  one  was  as  bad  as  an- 
other, and  that  he  had  been  a  victim  in  their  hands, 
but  that  the  result  had  not  been  destructive  of 
morality  in  Liverpool,  nor  absolutely  ruinous  to 
the  character  of  Thomas  Hatchard,  beyond  which 
nothing  more  could  be  said.  He  offered  the  opin- 
ion on  his  own  account  that  the  achievement  of 
Thomas  had  been  mighty. 

"  You  can  put  your  money  on  that,  Mac./'  and 
Beazley  went  off  again :  "  to  pay  up  the  balance  of 
that  composition  and  every  private  loan  with  in- 
terest, compound  too,  is  simply  Ai.  T.  H.  has 
taken  the  cake.  And  didn't  he  train  for  it,  poor 
chap! 

"  No  man  enjoyed  a  good  cigar  more  than 
Tommy — could  not  take  him  in  with  bad  tobacco. 
Well,  I  happen  to  know  that  he  hasn't  had  one 
smoke  since  July  7th,  '87.  Of  course  he  could  have 
had  as  much  'baccy  as  he  wanted;  but  no,  it  was 
a  bit  of  the  training — giving  up  every  luxury,  d'ye 
see?" 

"  I  wish  I  was  Thomas  the  night,"  remarked 
Macfarlane.  "  He  'ill  have  a  worthwhile  smoke." 

"  He  rather  liked  a  good  lunch,  and  did  justice 
to  his  grub,  too,"  continued  Beazley.  "  Well,  for 
ten  years  he's  taken  his  midday  meal  standing,  on 


2i 8  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

milk  and  bread — not  half  bad  all  the  same — at  the 
Milk-Pail  in  Fenwick  Street,  and  he  wouldn't  allow 
himself  a  cup  of  tea.  You  saw  how  he  lived  at 
Heswall,  Oxley?" 

"  Yes,  he  found  out  that  he  could  get  a  little 
house,  with  a  bit  of  garden,  for  forty  pounds,  taxes 
included,  and  so  he  settled  there  and  cut  the  whole 
concern  here.  There  was  one  sitting-room  for  the 
children  and  another  for  themselves,  and  the  garden 
was  the  drawing-room ;  but  I  don't  believe  Hatch- 
ard  was  ever  happier,  and  Mrs.  Hatchard  has 
turned  out  a  heroine." 

"  Tommy  played  up  well,"-  broke  in  Beazley, 
"and  he  never  missed  a  chance.  There  has  not 
been  any  brokerage  lying  loose  in  the  corn  market 
these  ten  years,  you  bet;  and  what  he  got  he  did 
well.  Do  you  hear  that  MacConnell  of  Chicago 
has  given  him  his  work  to  do?  Tommy  is  steam- 
ing down  the  deep-water  channel  now,  full  speed. 
What's  to  be  done  ?  that's  the  question.  We  simply 
must  celebrate." 

"  Well,  replied  Oxley,  "  I  suppose  the  creditors 
will  be  giving  him  a  dinner  at  the  Adelphi  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  there's  something  Hatchard 
would  like  far  better  than  fifty  dinners.  He  has 
never  entered  the  corn  exchange  since  his  failure, 
and  I  know  he  never  would  till  he  could  look  every 
man  in  the  face.  What  do  you  say  to  ask  Barnabas 
Greatheart  to  call  at  his  office  and  take  him  ?  " 

"  Oxley,  you  are  inspired,  and  ought  to  take  to 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  219 

politics:  it's  just  the  thing  Greatheart  would  like 
to  do,  and  it  will  please  the  men  tremendously. 
I  bet  you  a  new  hat  there  will  be  a  cheer,  and  I  see 
them  shaking  hands  with  Tommy:  it  will  touch 
up  two  or  three  scallawags  on  the  raw  first-rate, 
too,  who  have  made  half  a  dozen  compositions  in 
their  time.  But  what  about  ourselves,  Ox.  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Macfarlane ;  "  we're  not  common 
shareholders  in  this  concern :  we're  founders,  that's 
what  we  are." 

"  I  was  thinking  before  you  men  came  in  that 
a  nice  piece  of  silver  for  their  dinner-table — they 
will  come  up  to  town  now — say  a  bowl  with  some 
little  inscription  on  it.  .  .  ." 

"  The  very  thing :  we'll  have  it  this  afternoon ; 
and,  Ox.,  you  draw  up  the  screed,  but  for  my  sake, 
as  well  as  Tommy's,  put  in  something  about  hon- 
our, and,  old  fellow,  let  it  be  strong;  it'll  go  down 
to  his  boys,  and  be  worth  a  fortune  to  them,  for 
it  will  remind  them  that  their  father  was  an  honest 
man." 

It  is  not  needful  to  describe,  because  everybody 
in  the  Liverpool  Corn  Market  knows,  how  Barna- 
bas Greatheart  came  into  the  room  arm  in  arm  with 
Thomas  Hatchard,  and  how  every  single  man  shook 
hands  with  Thomas  because  he  had  gone  beyond 
the  law  and  done  a  noble  deed,  and  was  a  credit 
to  the  corn  business ;  and  how  Tommy  tried  to 
return  thanks  for  his  health  a  week  after  at  the 
Adelphi,  and  broke  down  utterly,  but  not  before 


220  SAVED  BY  FAITH 

he  had  explained  that  he  wasn't  at  all  the  good  man 
they  thought  him,  but  that  he  happened  to  have 
had  better  friends  than  most  men. 

What  is  not  known  is  that  on  the  very  evening 
of  the  great  day  a  special  messenger  brought  over 
to  the  cottage  at  Heswall  a  parcel,  which,  being 
opened,  contained  a  massive  silver  bowl,  with  this 
inscription : — 

TO 
MRS.  THOMAS  HATCHARD, 

FROM  THREE  FRIENDS, 

IN  ADMIRATION  OF  HER  HUSBAND'S 

BUSINESS  INTEGRITY  AND 

STAINLESS  HONOUR. 

July  7,  1897. 

and  that  on  the  first  anniversary  of  the  great  day 
the  Hatchards  gave  a  dinner-party  in  their  new 
house  at  Mossley  Hill,  where  six  guests  were  pres- 
ent, whose  names  can  be  easily  supplied,  and  the 
bowl,  filled  with  roses,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
table  so  that  all  could  read  the  writing  thereon; 
that  without  any  direct  allusion  to  the  circum- 
stances, or  any  violation  of  good  taste,  the  bowl 
came  into  conversation  eleven  times :  once  in  praise 
of  the  roses;  once  in  discussion  of  the  pattern 
(Queen  Anne) ;  once  with  reference  to  the  pedestal 
of  Irish  bog-oak;  once  in  verification  of  the  fact 
that  "  honour  "  was  spelt  with  a  "  u  "  (it  was  Fred- 
die who,  with  much  ingenuity,  turned  the  search- 


SAVED  BY  FAITH  221 

light  on  honour) ;  and  seven  times  in  ways  too 
subtle  and  fleeting  for  detection.  When  the  ladies 
left  the  room  there  was  a  look  between  the  host 
and  his  wife  as  he  held  the  door;  and  when  the 
other  men's  cigars  were  fully  lit,  Tommy  made  and 
finished,  with  some  pauses,  a  speech  which  may 
not  sound  very  eloquent  on  paper,  but  which  the 
audience  will  never  forget.  "  There's  a  text  some- 
where in  the  Bible,"  he  said,  pretending  that  his 
cigar  was  not  drawing — "  which  runs  something 
like  this,  *  saved  by  faith/  and  when  I  look  at 
that  bowl  I  remember  that  I  ...  was  saved 
that  way ;  but  it  wasn't  .  .  .  my  faith :  it  was 
the  faith  ...  of  you  three  men.'* 


THE   LAST   SACRIFICE 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 


Firelight  casts  a  weird  enchantment  over  an 
old-fashioned  room  in  the  gloaming,  and  cleanses 
it  from  the  commonplace.  Distant  corners  are 
veiled  in  a  shadow  full  of  mystery;  heavy  curtains 
conceal  unknown  persons  in  their  folds ;  a  massive 
cabinet,  full  of  Eastern  curios,  is  flung  into  relief, 
so  that  one  can  identify  an  Indian  god,  who  dis- 
tinctly grins  and  mocks  with  sardonic  humour, 
although  in  daylight  he  be  a  personage  of  awful 
solemnity;  a  large  arm-chair,  curiously  embroi- 
dered, grows  into  the  likeness  of  a  stout  elderly 
gentleman  of  benevolent  heart  but  fierce  political 
prejudices;  the  flickering  flames  sketch  on  the 
ceiling  scenes  of  past  days  which  can  never  return ; 
and  on  a  huge  mirror  the  whole  interior  is  reflected 
as  in  a  phantasmagoria. 

"  It  is,  I  do  honestly  believe,  the  dreariest  room 
in  Bloomsbury,  and  one  can  hardly  go  farther," 
said  a  young  woman,  lying  at  her  ease  on  the  white 
bearskin  before  the  fire ;  "  and  yet  it  has  a  beauty 
of  its  own — sober,  of  course,  but  kindly;  yes,  that 

225 


226        THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

is  the  word,  and  true.  My  room  at  Kensington, 
that  Reggie  and  his  artist  friends  have  been  doing 
up  in  their  best  style,  as  Maples  say,  does  not  look 
prettier  to-night  nor  your  lovely  black  oak  at  the 
Rectory." 

"  If  you  had  got  your  will,  Frances,"  answered 
a  sister  some  six  years  older  from  the  couch, 
"  every  stick  of  this  furniture  would  have  been  sold 
long  ago,  and  the  walls  draped  in  pale  green.  You 
are  full  of  sentiment  to-night." 

"  It's  the  double  wedding  and  the  departure  from 
the  ancestral  mansion  which  is  casting  shadows 
over  my  too  susceptible  heart  and  a  glamour  over 
this  prosaic  old  room  with  its  solid  Philistine  fur- 
niture," and  Frances  pretended  to  conceal  her  rising 
emotion  behind  a  fan.  "  Your  already  matronly 
staidness,  Gerty,  is  incapable  of  entering  into  such 
moods.  It  is  a  mercy  one  daughter,  at  least, — I 
think  there  are  two — reproduces  mother,  and  can 
never  be  accused  of  sentiment — and  such  a  blessing 
for  the  Rector!  It  is  a  rule,  one  would  say  from 
observation,  that  clergymen  choose  matter-of-fact 
and  managing  wives,  as  a  check,  I  suppose,  on 
their  own  unworldliness  and  enthusiasm.  As  for 
me,  so  frivolous  and  .  .  .  affectionate,  poor 
papa  must  have  the  entire  responsibility,"  and 
Frances  sighed  audibly. 

"  Are  you  really  deceived  by  mother's  composure 
and  reserve?"  Gertrude's  quiet  tone  emphasized 
the  contrast  between  her  refined  face  and  Frances' 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE        227 

Spanish  beauty.  "  Strangers  count  her  cold  as 
marble,  and  I  can  excuse  them,  for  they  judge  her 
in  society.  We  ought  to  know  better,  and  she  has 
always  seemed  to  me  the  very  type  of  loyalty  and 
faithfulness." 

"  Of  course  she  is  the  dearest  mater  ever  was, 
and  far  too  unselfish,  and  she  has  been  most  patient 
with  her  wayward  youngest  daughter;  but  she  is 
— well,  I  could  not  say  that  she  is  a  creature  of 
emotion." 

"You  believe,  I  suppose," — Gertrude  was  slightly 
nettled — "  in  women  who  kiss  frantically  on  meet- 
ing, first  one  cheek  and  then  the  other,  and  sign 
themselves  '  with  a  thousand  remembrances  and 
much  love,  yours  most  affectionately/  who  adopt 
a  new  friend  every  month,  and  marry  three  times 
for  companionship." 

"  Gertrude,  I  am  ashamed  of  you ;  you  are  most 
provoking  and  unjust;  my  particular  detestations, 
as  you  know  very  well,  are  a  couple  of  girls'  arms 
round  each  other's  waists — studying  one  another's 
dresses  all  the  time — and  a  widow  who  marries 
again  for  protection, — it's  a  widower  who  says  com- 
panionship,— but  I  enjoy  your  eloquence ;  it  will  be 
a  help  to  Fred  when  he  is  sermon-making.  You 
will  collaborate — that  is  the  correct  word,  isn't  it?  " 

"  None  of  us  will  ever  know  how  deep  and  strong 
is  the  mater's  love,"  continued  Gertrude,  giving  no 
heed  to  her  sister's  badinage ;  "  she  cannot  speak, 
and  so  she  will  always  be  misunderstood,  as  quiet 


228         THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

people  are.  Did  you  ever  notice  that  she  writes  her 
letters  on  that  old  desk,  instead  of  using  the  escri- 
toire ?  that  is  because  it  was  father's ;  and  although 
she  never  mentions  his  name,  I  believe  mother 
would  rather  starve  than  leave  this  house  or  part 
with  a  chair  that  was  in  it  when  he  was  living. 

"  Frances,  I'll  tell  you  something  I  once  saw  and 
can  never  forget.  When  I  slept  in  mother's  room, 
I  woke  one  night,  and  found  she  had  risen.  She 
opened  a  drawer  that  was  always  kept  locked,  and 
took  out  a  likeness  of  father.  After  looking  at  it 
again  and  again — can  you  believe  that? — she  laid 
it  on  a  chair,  and,  kneeling  down,  prayed  to  God 
for  us  all,  and  that  they  might  meet  again ;  and 
then  she  looked  at  him  once  more,  and  put  the 
picture  in  its  place. 

"  Pray  God,  Frances,  that  you  and  I,  who  are  to 
be  married  on  Tuesday,  may  love  as  she  has  done, 
once  for  ever ;  do  you  know  I've  often  thought  that 
Grace  is  the  only  one  of  us  that  has  mother's  power 
of  affection,  and  yet  we  are  to  be  married  and  she 
is  to  be  left." 

"  Yes,  Grace  is  like  mother,  and  yet  I  don't  think 
mother  understands  her  one  bit.  What  a  wife  she 
would  make  to  some  man,  Gertie ;  only  it  would  be 
bad  for  him.  She  would  serve  him  like  a  slave, 
and  he  would  be  insufferable. 

"  But  there  is  no  fear  of  that  calamity,"  Frances 
went  on,  "  for  Grace  will  never  marry.  She  is 
beginning  to  have  the  airs  of  an  old  maid  already, 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE         229 

a  way  of  dressing  and  a  certain  primness  which  is 
alarming." 

"  It  passes  me,"  said  Gertrude,  "  how  no  man  has 
seen  her  excellence  and  tried  to  win  her;  do  you 
know  I've  sometimes  thought  that  Mr.  Lennox 
admired  her;  they  would  certainly  make  a  perfect 
pair." 

"  You  are  the  dearest  old  stupid,  Gertrude.  Of 
course  George  Lennox  adores  Grace,  as  he  would 
do  a  saint  in  a  painted  window;  and  Grace  ap- 
preciates him  because  he  teaches  astronomy  or 
conchology  or  something  to  working  men  in  the 
East  End.  Neither  of  them  knows  how  to  make 
love ;  their  conversation  is  a  sort  of  religious  exer- 
cise," and  Frances'  eyes  danced  with  the  delight 
of  a  mistress  in  her  art.  "  Why,  I  once  did  my 
best  with  him  just  to  keep  my  hand  in,  and,  Ger- 
trude, you  might  as  well  have  flirted  with  that 
wretched  god.  I  would  rather  have  the  god,  for 
he  winked  to  me  just  now  quite  distinctly,  the 
reprobate  old  scoundrel." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,  and  Grace  does  not  wish 
to  marry.  But  it  will  be  lonely  in  this  big  empty 
house  for  mother  and  her  when  we  are  gone." 

"  Dull !  Gertie,  you  do  not  understand  the  situa- 
tion. It  will  be  a  relief  for  the  two  of  them  to  have 
this  love  traffic  over,  and  no  more  men  about  the 
house.  Grace  simply  endures  it,  as  a  nun  might, 
and  the  mater  resents  any  of  her  daughters  being 
married.  They  have  their  programme  fixed.  Grace 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 


will  visit  her  sick  people  in  the  forenoon,  and  the 
mater  will  do  her  tradesmen;  in  the  afternoon  the 
two  will  attend  the  Committee  for  the  Relief  of 
Decayed  Washerwomen,  and  after  dinner  Gracie 
will  read  to  mother  out  of  Hallam's  Middle  Ages. 
"  I'll  box  that  creature's  ears,"  and  Frances 
jumped  to  her  feet,  a  very  winsome  young  woman 
indeed  ;  "  he's  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  on  his 
pedestal  at  some  wicked  joke,  or  as  if  he  knew  a 
family  secret.  He's  an  old  cynic,  and  regards  us 
as  a  pair  of  children  prattling  about  life." 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE         231 


II 


"  My  work  at  Court  was  finished  a  little  earlier 
to-day,  and  I  have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  to  inquire  for  Mrs.  Leconte  and  you  after 
the  marriage.  Will  you  accept  a  few  roses  ? " 
The  manner  was  grave  and  a  trifle  formal,  but 
George  Lennox  was  one  in  whom  any  woman 
might  safely  put  her  trust — tali  and  well  built,  with 
a  strong  face  and  kindly  eyes — a  modest  and  cour- 
teous gentleman. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  remember  us,  but,  indeed, 
you  have  always  been  most  kind,"  said  Miss  Le- 
conte, with  the  faintest  flush  on  her  cheek. 
"  Mother  is  out,  and  will  be  sorry  to  have  missed 
you.  Will  you  not  sit  down,  and  I'll  order  tea." 

The  London  sun,  which  labours  hard,  with 
many  ingenuities,  to  do  his  part  by  every  home  and 
give  to  each  its  morsel  of  brightness,  found  the 
right  angle  at  that  moment,  and  played  round 
Grace's  face  with  soft  afternoon  light. 

She  was  not  beautiful  like  her  sisters,  but  one 
man  out  of  a  thousand  would  learn  to  love  her  for 
the  loyalty  that  could  be  read  in  the  grey  eyes,  and 
the  smile,  a  very  revelation  of  tenderness,  as  if  her 
soul  had  looked  at  you. 


232         THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

"  Yes,  mother  and  I  have  settled  down  to  our 
quiet  round  after  the  festivities ;  mother  needs  a 
rest,  for  you  know  how  little  she  thinks  of  herself ; 
her  unselfishness  puts  one  to  shame  every  day." 

Mr.  Lennox  looked  as  if  he  knew  another  un- 
selfish person,  and  Grace  continued  hurriedly: 

"  Every  one  thought  the  marriage  went  off  so 
well,  and  the  day  was  certainly  perfect.  Didn't 
Gertrude  and  Frances  make  lovely  brides,  each  in 
her  own  way  ?  " 

"  So  the  people  said,  and  I  know  how  they  would 
look,  but  it  happened  that  I  stood  where  I  could 
only  see  the  bridesmaids." 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  putting  the  roses  in  water? 
they  are  the  finest  I've  seen  this  summer,  and  I 
want  to  keep  them  fresh,"  and  she  escaped  for  the 
moment. 

He  watched  her  place  one  dish  on  the  end  of  the 
grand  piano  and  another  on  a  table  near  her 
mother's  chair,  and  a  yearning  look  came  over  his 
face. 

They  talked  of  many  things,  but  both  were  think- 
ing of  one  only,  and  then  it  was  she,  in  her  kind- 
ness, that  provoked  the  catastrophe. 

"  You  will  come  again  and  see  mother ;  she 
misses  Gerty  and  Frances,  and  it  is  very  pleasant 
to  have  a  talk  with  old  friends." 

"  And  you,  Grace — Miss  Leconte,  I  mean — may 
I  not  come  to  visit  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  am  glad  when  you  come,  and 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE         233 

always  will  be;  you  are  my  friend  also,"  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  frank,  kind  eyes. 

"  Nothing  more  than  friend  after  all  these  years 
— seven  now  since  first  we  met.  Do  you  not  guess 
what  I  was  thinking  as  your  sisters  stood  beside 
their  bridegrooms  in  church?"  But  she  did  not 
answer. 

"  Can  you  give  me  no  hope,  Grace  ?  If  you 
told  me  to  come  back  in  five  years,  I  would  count 
them  days  for  the  joy  of  hearing  you  call  me  by 
my  name  at  the  end,  as  a  woman  speaks  to  the 
man  she  loves." 

"  You  ought  not  to  open  this  matter  again," 
but  she  was  not  angry,  "  for  my  mind  is  made  up, 
and  cannot  be  changed.  There  is  no  man  living 
whom  I  respect  more;  none  to  whom  I  would 
rather  go  in  time  of  trouble;  there  is  nothing  I 
would  not  do  for  you,  Mr.  Lennox,  except  one " 

"  But  it  is  the  one  thing  I  desire " ;  and  then 
Lennox  began  to  plead.  "  No  man  is  worthy  of 
you,  Grace,  and  I  least  of  all.  The  world  counts 
me  proud  and  cold,  and  I  regret  my  manner  every 
day,  but  I  can  love,  and  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart.  You  know  I  can  give  you  a  house  and 
every  comfort  of  life — perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
bring  you  honour  and  rank  some  day;  but  these 
are  not  the  arguments  I  would  urge  or  you  would 
care  to  hear.  Love  is  my  plea — that  I  never  loved 
before  I  saw  you,  and  if  you  refuse  me,  that  I  will 
not  love  any  other. 


234        THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

"  Do  not  speak  yet."  His  face  was  white,  and 
he  stretched  out  his  hands  in  appeal.  "  Have  we 
not  the  same  .  .  .  faith  and  the  same  ideals? 
Could  not  we  work  together  for  a  lifetime,  and 
serve  the  world  with  our  love?  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  spoken  years  ago,  but  the  Bar  is  an  un- 
certain profession,  and  my  position  was  not  made. 
It  seemed  to  me  cowardly  to  ask  a  woman's  love 
before  one  could  offer  her  marriage,  so  I  kept  silent 
till  last  spring,  when  I  saw  your  sisters'  lovers  and 
their  happiness — and  then  I  could  not  help  telling 
you  that  one  man  hoped  to  win  your  heart.  Now 
I  ask  for  your  answer. 

"  If  you  love  another  man,"  he  went  on,  "  or 
feel  that  you  can  never  love  me,  tell  me  at  once, 
Grace,  for  this  were  better  for  us  both.  I  would 
never  cease  to  love  you,  for  we  slow,  cold  men 
do  not  change,  and  if  you  had  need  I  would  serve 
you,  but  never  again  would  I  ...  trouble 
you,"  and  the  ablest  of  the  junior  counsel  at  the 
Chancery  Bar  broke  down  before  a  girl  that  had 
no  other  attraction  than  the  goodness  of  her  soul. 

Grace  Leconte  was  the  calmest  of  the  two  when 
she  spoke,  but  her  face  was  set  like  a  martyr's  in 
his  agony. 

"  I  had  hoped,  Mr.  Lennox,  that  you  would  not 
have  followed  up  what  you  said  in  March,  but  yet 
so  selfish  is  a  woman,  I  am  not  sorry  to  be  told 
that  I  ...  am  loved  by  such  a  man. 

"  Believe  me,  it  is  I  that  am  unworthy.     You 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE        235 

have  made  too  much  of  a  very  ordinary  woman. 
But  I  am  proud  of  ...  your  love,  and  in  after 
years,  when  I  find  the  strain  too  heavy,  will  often 
say,  '  God  has  been  good  to  me.  George  Lennox 
loved  me.' ' 

He  was  waiting  anxiously,  not  knowing  how  this 
would  end. 

"  You  have  spoken  frankly  to  me,  and  have  laid 
bare  your  heart,"  she  went  on.  "  I  do  not  see  why 
I  should  be  hindered  by  custom  from  telling  you 
the  truth  also,"  and  then  she  hesitated,  but  only  for 
a  little.  "  For  years — I  do  not  know  how  long — 
I  have  .  .  .  loved  you,  and  have  followed  your 
career  as  only  a  woman  who  loves  could — gathering 
every  story  of  your  success,  and  rejoicing  in  it  all 
as  if  you  had  been  mine.  Wait,  for  I  have  not 
yet  done. 

"  If  I  could  say  '  Yes/  I  would,  George — may 
I  call  you  this,  only  to-day? — without  any  delay, 
but  I  must  say  '  No  '  instead,  although  it  may  break 
my  heart.  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 

"  What  do  you  mean     .     .     .  ?  " 

"  Bear  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  You 
know  now  it  is  not  because  I  do  not  want  to  marry 
you — I  do;  I  also  can  love,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  an  old  maid — no  woman  does.  I  will  not  pre- 
tend indifference,  but  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to 
leave  my  mother." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  cried  Lennox,  as  one  who  has  cast 
off  a  great  dread.  "  I  would  never  ask  Mrs. 


236        THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

Leconte  to  part  from  the  last  of  her  daughters. 
She  will  come  with  you,  and  we  shall  strive  to 
make  her  life  peaceful  and  glad.  .  .  ." 

"  Please  do  not  go  on,  for  this  can  never  be.  No 
power  could  induce  mother  to  change  her  way  or 
live  with  us.  She  will  live  and  die  alone,  or  I  must 
stay  with  her.  My  duty  is  clear,  and,  George,  you 
must  .  .  .  accept  this  decision  as  final." 

"  You  will  let  me  speak  to  her  and  put  our 
case  .  .  . ?  " 

"  No,  a  thousand  times,  no.  She  must  never 
know  our  secret.  It  would  still  be  the  same  be- 
tween you  and  me,  but  mother  would  fret  every 
year  because  I  had  made  this  sacrifice.  As  it  is 
she  knows  nothing,  and  will  never  guess  the  truth. 
Promise  me  you  will  say  nothing ;  that  is  one  favour 
I  have  to  ask,  and  there  is  another,  that  .  .  . 
you  do  not  call  again,  for  I  could  not  bear  to  see 
you  for  a  little  .  .  .  for  some  years.  You  will 
do  so  much  for  me,  will  you  not  ?  " 

He  had  sat  down,  his  head  on  his  breast,  a  figure 
of  utter  dejection,  when  she  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  Things  cannot  end  after  this  fashion,"  and  Len- 
nox sprang  to  his  feet ;  "  does  not  the  Book  say  that 
a  man  will  forsake  father  and  mother  for  love's 
sake,  and  should  it  not  be  so  with  a  woman  also? 
What  right  have  you  to  deny  your  love  and  blight 
two  lives  ?  " 

"  Many  would  say  that  I  am  wrong,  but  my  mind 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE         237 

is  made  up.  Do  not  try  me  farther,  George;  God 
knows  how  hard  it  is  to  obey  my  conscience.  My 
duty,  as  I  see  it,  and  that  is  all  one  can  go  by,  is  to 
mother,  and  if  I  made  it  second  even  to  love,  I 
should  be  inwardly  ashamed,  and  you  .  .  .  you 
could  not  respect  me. 

"  Say  you  understand,"  and  her  lips  trembled ; 
"  say  that  you  forgive  me  for  the  sorrow  I  have 
brought  upon  you,  and  let  us  say  farewell." 

He  made  as  though  he  would  have  clasped  her 
in  his  arms  and  compelled  her  to  surrender,  and 
then  he  also  conquered. 

"  God  keep  and  bless  you,  Grace ;  if  I  cannot 
have  you  in  my  home,  none  can  keep  me  from 
carrying  you  in  my  heart,"  and  he  was  gone. 

She  watched  him  till  he  disappeared  round  the 
corner  of  the  square,  and  noticed  that  he  walked 
as  one  stricken  with  age.  One  of  their  windows 
commanded  a  corner  of  the  square  garden,  where 
the  trees  were  in  their  first  summer  greenery,  and 
she  could  hear  the  birds  singing.  As  she  turned 
away,  the  sunlight  lingered  on  the  white  roses 
which  George  Lennox  had  brought  as  the  token 
of  his  love,  and  then  departed,  leaving  the  faded 
room  in  the  shadow. 


238         THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 


III 


"  This  frame  seems  to  have  been  made  for  our 
purpose,  Grace,"  and  Mrs.  Leconte  arranged  in 
order  Gertrude  with  her  two  girls  and  Frances  with 
her  two  boys.  "  It  seems  only  a  few  months,  in- 
stead of  four  years,  since  the  wedding  day. 

"  They  have  good  husbands  and  happy  homes. 
I  only  wish  their  father  .  .  ."  This  was  so 
unusual  that  Grace  looked  at  her  mother,  and  Mrs. 
Leconte  checked  herself.  "  You  are  going  down 
to  the  Rectory,  I  hope,  next  week;  Gertrude  is 
always  anxious  to  have  you,  and  August  in  London 
is  very  trying." 

"  Certainly ;  but  on  one  condition,  mother,  that 
you  go  too;  it  would  be  such  a  joy  to  Gerty,  and 
you  must  have  some  change." 

"  Perhaps  I  will,  a  little  later,  but  I  never  leave 
London  in  August.  I  have  always  been  very 
strong,  and  I  like  a  ...  quiet  time  then." 

"  Mother,"  and  Mrs.  Leconte  turned  at  the  pas- 
sion in  her  daughter's  voice,  "  why  will  you  not 
allow  any  of  us  to  share  your  remembrance  and 
your  grief?  We  know  why  you  shut  yourself  up 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE        239 

alone  in  August,  and  now,  when  there  are  just  you 
and  I,  it  hurts  me  that  I  may  not  be  with  you,  if 
it  were  only  to  pray  ...  or  weep.  Would  it 
not  be  some  help  ?  "  and  Grace  took  her  mother's 
hand,  a  very  rare  caress. 

"  You  are  a  good  daughter,  Grace,"  she  spoke 
with  much  difficulty,  "  but  .  .  .  God  made  me 
to  be  alone,  and  silent.  I  was  not  able  to  tell  either 
joy  or  sorrow  even  to  your  father.  You  spoke  of 
weeping ;  do  you  know  I've  never  shed  a  tear  since 
I  was  a  child — not  often  then. 

"  When  he  died,  my  eyes  were  dry.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Grace,  you  are  most  like  me :  may  God  deliver  you 
from  a  tearless  grief ;  but  it  must  be  so  with  me  to 
the  end." 

"  Dearest  mother,"  said  Grace,  but  she  did  not 
kiss  her. 

"  You  are  often  in  my  thoughts,  Grace,"  after  a 
long  silence,  "  and  I  am  concerned  about  you,  for 
you  have  aged  beyond  your  years.  Are  you  .  .  . 
well?" 

"  What  a  question,  mater ;  you  know  that  I  have 
the  health  of  a  donkey — save  a  headache  now  and 
then  that  gives  me  an  interesting  pallor.  You 
forget  that  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  maid,  nearly 
thirty." 

"  Is  it  really  that  ...  I  mean  do  you  not 
feel  lonely — it  is  a  contrast,  your  sisters'  lot  and 
yours,  and  a  woman's  heart  was  made  for  love,  but 
if  it  be  so  do  not  sorrow  over  much  .  I 


240        THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

can't  explain  myself — there  are  many  in  this  world 
to  love,  and,  at  any  rate  .  .  .  you  will  never 
know  the  sense  of  loss." 

"  That  is  the  postman's  ring,"  and  Grace  made 
an  errand  to  obtain  the  letters,  and  lingered  a 
minute  on  the  way. 

"  Only  one  letter,  and  it's  for  you,  mother.  I 
think  I  know  the  handwriting." 

"  Of  course  you  do ;  it's  from  Mrs.  Archer, 
George  Lennox's  aunt.  She  is  a  capital  corre- 
spondent, and  always  sends  lots  of  news.  Let  me 
see.  Oh,  they've  had  Gertrude  and  her  husband 
staying  a  night  with  them  for  a  dinner. 

" '  Everything  went  off  well '  .  .  .  '  Gerty 
looked  very  distinguished,  and  has  just  the  air  of 
a  clergyman's  wife.'  Gerty  was  always  suited  for 
that  part,  just  as  Frances  does  better  among  the 
painters.  ...  I  wish  all  the  same  they  were 
both  here,  Grace,  but  I  suppose  that's  a  wrong 
feeling,  for  marriage  is  a  woman's  natural  lot 
.  .  .  that  is  in  most  cases,  some  have  another 
calling. 

"  Do  you  know  who  has  been  staying  with  the 
Archers?  Why,  you  might  guess  that — George 
Lennox ;  he's  Jane  Archer's  favourite  nephew,  and 
I  don't  wonder ;  no  woman,  I  mean  sensible  woman, 
could  help  liking  him;  he's  so  reliable  and  high- 
toned,  as  well  as  able,  and  do  you  know,  I  always 
thought  Mr.  Lennox  good-looking. 

"  What's  this  ?     '  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that 


THE  LAST  SACRIFICE         241 

George  is  looking  very  ill  indeed,  and  just  like  an 
old  man,  and  he's  not  forty  yet.'  Are  you  there, 
Grace?  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  left  the 
room.  Isn't  that  sad  about  Mr.  Lennox? 

"  Mrs.  Archer  goes  on  to  say  that  he  overworks 
shockingly,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  break  down 
soon ;  he  will  take  no  advice,  and  allows  himself  no 
pleasure.  What  a  pity  to  see  a  man  throwing  away 
his  life,  isn't  it?" 

"  Perhaps  he  finds  his  .  .  .  satisfaction  in 
work,  mother." 

"  Nonsense ;  no  man  ought  to  kill  himself.  Mr. 
Lennox  ought  to  have  married  years  ago,  and  then 
he  would  not  have  been  making  a  wreck  of  himself ; 
I  don't  know  any  man  who  would  have  made  a 
better  husband,  or  of  whom  a  woman  would  have 
been  prouder."  And  Mrs.  Leconte  compelled  a 
reply. 

"  He  is  a  good  man,  and  I  think  you  are  right, 
mother."  Something  in  her  tone  struck  Mrs. 
Leconte's  ear. 

"  Grace,  Mr.  Lennox  used  to  come  frequently  to 
this  house,  and  now  I  have  noticed  he  never  calls." 

Her  daughter  said  nothing. 

"  It  was  after  your  sisters'  wedding  that  he  ceased 
to  call.  Do  you  think  ...  I  mean,  was  he 
in  love  with  Gerty?  Frances  it  couldn't  be.  I 
never  thought  of  that  before,  for  I  am  not  very 
observant.  Nothing  would  have  given  me  more 
pleasure,  if  my  daughters  were  to  be  married,  than 


242        THE  LAST  SACRIFICE 

to  have  George  Lennox  for  a  son-in-law.  Can  it 
be,  Grace,  that  Gerty  refused  him,  and  we  have 
never  known  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  she  did  not,  mother " ;  and  again 
Mrs.  Leconte  caught  a  strange  note  in  her  daugh- 
ter's voice. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  suspect  that  if  you  had  given 
him  any  encouragement,  George  Lennox  would 
have  been  a  happy  man  to-day.  Is  that  so,  Grace  ? 

"  Pardon  me,  Grace,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  ask 
such  a  question ;  it  came  suddenly  into  my  mind. 
Whatever  you  did  was  no  doubt  right ;  a  woman 
cannot  give  her  hand  without  her  heart  even  to  the 
best  of  men.  If  it  be  as  I  imagine,  I  do  not  blame 
you,  Grace,  but  ...  I  am  sorry  for  George 
Lennox." 

Grace  wept  that  night  over  the  saddest  of  all  the 
ironies  of  life — a  sacrifice  which  was  a  mistake  and 
which  had  no  reward. 


AN   EVANGELIST 


AN  EVANGELIST 

His  private  business  was  lard,  which  he  bought 
for  the  rise  and  sold  for  the  fall — being  a  bull  or  a 
bear  without  prejudice — and  with  a  success  so  dis- 
tinguished that  his  name  was  mentioned  in  highly 
complimentary  terms  on  the  American  market. 
When  the  famous  lard  corner  of  1887  had  been 
wound  up,  and  every  man  had  counted  his  gains 
(or  losses),  old  man  Perkins,  of  Chicago,  did  jus- 
tice to  his  chief  opponent,  like  the  operator  of  hon- 
our that  he  was. 

"  No,  sir,  I  ain't  a  slouch,  and  the  man  who  says 
that  I  don't  know  lard  is  a  mining  expert;  but 
Elijah  Higginbotham,  of  Victoria  Street,  Liverpool, 
Great  Britain,  has  come  out  on  top:  he's  a  hustler 
from  way  back,  is  Elijah." 

Mr.  Perkins'  opinion,  which  was  a  deduction 
based  on  the  results  of  at  least  six  first-class  encoun- 
ters, was  generally  accepted  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic, and  it  was  conceded  that  what  Mr.  Elijah 
Higginbotham  did  not  know  about  that  capricious 
and  volatile  instrument  of  speculation  was  not 
knowledge.  As  a  matter  of  principle  he  was  op- 
posed to  gambling,  and  denounced  it  with  much 
eloquence  and  perfect  sincerity  at  conferences  of  a 

245 


246  AN  EVANGELIST 

religious  character, — warning  his  audience,  com- 
posed mainly  of  old  ladies,  against  the  Derby — but 
if  this  evil  and  ruinous  spirit  should  happen  to  en- 
ter his  market,  where  it  seemed  quite  at  home,  Elijah 
was  prepared  to  overthrow  gambling  with  its  own 
weapons,  and  on  such  occasions  it  was  worldly  wis- 
dom to  bet  on  Elijah's  side.  His  ideas  regarding 
the  date  of  unfulfilled  prophecy  might  be  crude, 
but  his  foresight  regarding  the  future  of  lard  was  an 
instinct. 

His  public  business  was  religion,  and  especially 
the  work  of  an  evangelist,  and  to  this  Elijah  gave 
himself  with  incredible  courage  and  diligence. 
When  he  was  not  manipulating  lard  or  asleep,  he 
was  inquiring  into  the  condition  of  his  neighbour's 
soul,  and  none  could  escape  him.  It  was  freely  told 
on  'Change  how  he  had  fallen  on  an  alderman, 
who  had  responded  too  generously  to  the  loyal 
toasts  at  a  municipal  banquet,  and  so  impressed 
him  with  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  awfulness  of 
the  future,  that  the  worthy  man  was  bathed  in 
tears,  and  promised  if  spared  to  join  the  Plymouth 
Brethren  next  day.  Bishops  of  the  Church,  who 
are  awful  beings  to  ordinary  people,  and  with  whom 
some  of  us  hardly  dare  to  speak  about  the  weather, 
were  to  Elijah  a  chosen  prey  in  railway  carriages, 
so  that  he  would  hunt  a  train  to  travel  with  one  for 
a  long  journey,  and  he  has  been  known  to  reduce 
one  pompous  prelate  to  the  verge  of  apoplexy  by 
showing  before  a  (secretly)  delighted  company  of 


AN  EVANGELIST  247 

"  firsts  "  that  this  successor  to  the  Apostles  did  not 
really  know  wherein  conversion  consisted,  and,  by 
not  very  indirect  inference,  that  the  Bishop  was  him- 
self still  unconverted.  Unto  Elijah  belongeth  also  the 
doubtful  and  perilous  distinction  of  having  been  the 
unwilling  and  (as  he  would  himself  say)  unworthy 
means  of  stopping  a  London  express  when  going 
at  full  speed.  It  was,  of  course,  an  old  and  perhaps 
over-nervous  gentleman  who  actually  pulled  the  cord 
and  waved  to  the  guard,  and  it  was  Elijah  who 
offered  immediate  and  elaborate  explanations;  but 
Elijah's  fellow-passenger  held  a  strong  position 
when  he  laid  the  blame  on  Elijah. 

"  It's  well  enough  for  him  to  say  that  he  was 
speaking  spiritually,  but  he  told  me  plainly  that  I 
was  going  to  Hell,  and  not  to  London,  and  I  put  it 
to  you,  guard," — by  this  time  there  was  a  large  jury 
of  interested  passengers, — "  when  the  only  other 
man  in  the  compartment  uses  language  of  that  kind, 
and  he  much  younger  and  stronger,  whether  I  wasn't 
justified  in  calling  for  assistance." 

Quiet  men,  not  prone  to  panics,  just  breaking 
upon  their  luncheon  at  the  Club,  rose  and  fled 
when  Elijah  sat  down  at  the  same  table,  knowing 
well  that  not  only  would  a  forbidding  silence 
be  no  protection,  but  that  even  ingenious  and 
ensnaring  allusions  to  the  critical  condition  of  the 
lard  market  would  be  no  protection  against  per- 
sonal inquiries  of  the  most  searching  character. 
He  was  always  provided  with  portable  religious 


248  AN  EVANGELIST 

literature  of  a  somewhat  startling  character,  and 
was  in  this  way  able  to  supply  his  fellow-passen- 
gers in  the  evening  'bus ;  and  it  was  stimulating 
to  any  one  with  a  sense  of  humour  to  see  com- 
mercial magnates  handling  one  of  Elijah's  tracts 
as  if  it  were  dynamite,  and  late-comers  taking  in 
the  interior  at  a  glance  from  the  step,  and  hurriedly 
climbing  to  the  top — willing  to  risk  bronchitis 
rather  than  twenty  minutes  of  Elijah.  His  con- 
scientious opinion  was  that  the  limited  number  of 
persons  who  held  his  particular  opinions  would 
go  to  heaven,  and  the  large  number  who  did  not 
would  go  elsewhere,  and  in  these  circumstances  no 
one  could  blame  him  for  being  urgent.  No  doubt 
Elijah — for  indeed  this  was  almost  an  official  title 
— was  very  insistent,  and  had  no  tact ;  but  then 
when  you  are  pulling  people  out  of  fires,  and 
handing  them  out  of  burning  houses — these  were 
his  favourite  illustrations  of  the  situation — one 
does  not  pay  much  attention  to  ceremony  or  even 
manners.  It  was  often  said  that  he  alienated  people 
from  religion,  and  so  defeated  his  own  ends;  but  I 
suppose  that  his  reply  would  be  that  he  left  them 
no  worse  than  he  found  them,  and  if  it  was  asserted 
that  he  influenced  no  one,  he  very  likely  had  some 
cases  of  success  among  that  class  of  persons  who 
are  never  utterly  persuaded  until  they  are  felled  by 
a  blow  between  the  eyes.  Very  likely  he  was  not 
concerned  about  success  or  failure,  approval  or  dis- 
approval, but  simply  was  determined  to  do  his  duty, 


AN  EVANGELIST  249 

which  was  to  hold  back  as  many  of  his  neighbours 
as  he  could  from  going  to  Hell.  This  duty  he  dis- 
charged with  all  his  might  and  with  undeniable  cour- 
age, and  Elijah  had  his  reward  by  universal  consent 
in  that  no  one  accused  him  of  canting,  for  he  never 
said  anything  he  did  not  believe  with  the  marrow 
of  his  bones,  or  of  hypocrisy,  for  he  certainly  made 
no  gain  of  godliness. 

When  Elijah  entered  my  room  one  morning — 
his  clean-shaven,  heavy- jawed  face  more  determined 
than  ever — I  was  certain  that  he  had  not  come  to 
talk  over  the  weather,  and  prepared  myself  for  faith- 
ful dealing. 

"  It  is  not  my  custom,"  he  began,  "  to  read  fiction, 
and  I  believe  that  the  more  people  read  novels  the 
less  will  they  want  to  read  their  Bibles;  but  I  was 
recommended  to  read  a  book  of  yours,  called  The 
Days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  by  a  friend,  in  whose 
judgment  I  have  usually  placed  confidence,  and  I 
feel  it  my  duty  to  call  and  remonstrate  with  you 
about  that  book." 

Was  it  the  literary  form  that  he  wished  to  criti- 
cise, or  the  substance?  In  either  case  I  hoped  he 
would  speak  with  all  frankness,  an  encouragement 
which  Mr.  Higginbotham  perhaps  hardly  needed. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  literature, 
for  I  thank  God  that  my  Bible  and  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress  are  enough  for  me;  but  I  did  once  read 
Scott — long  ago  before  I  knew  the  value  of  time — 
and  your  book  is  certainly  not  up  to  that  sample," 


250  AN  EVANGELIST 

This,  I  assured  Elijah,  was  my  own  fixed  and 
unalterable  opinion,  and  I  ventured  to  congratu- 
late Elijah  on  the  acuteness  of  his  literary  judg- 
ment— which  compliment  was  passed  over  without 
acknowledgment — and  then  I  pressed  for  his  far- 
ther criticism. 

"  What  I  have  to  say  is  just  this,  that  there  are 
characters  in  the  book  who  ought  not  to  be  intro- 
duced to  a  Christian  family,  and  views  which  are 
sure  to  injure  religion." 

Now  it  happened  that  I  had  been  reading  that 
morning  an  interesting  and  very  caustic  review, 
in  which  it  was  pointed  out  that  no  people  had 
ever  lived  or  ever  would  live  so  good  as  the  in- 
habitants of  Drumtochty:  that  I  had  confused 
together  the  (mythical)  garden  of  Eden  with  a 
Scots  village;  that  the  places  were  really  very  dif- 
ferent in  morals  and  general  environment ;  that  it 
was  a  pity  that  the  author  did  not  know  the  limits 
of  true  art ;  that  what  was  wanted  was  reality,  not 
sentimental  twaddle,  and  that  in  short — but  this  is 
not  how  the  critic  put  it — let  the  writer  of  fiction 
stick  to  the  ash-pit  in  a  house,  and  not  attempt  the 
picture  gallery.  The  critic — a  young  gentleman,  I 
should  say — was  very  severe  on  my  London  doctor, 
who  had  taken  a  servant  girl  to  his  own  house  that 
she  might  die  there  in  peace,  and  assured  me  that 
such  extravagant  unrealities  showed  my  hopeless 
ignorance,  and  proved  my  unfitness  to  be  an  artist 
in  life.  Up  to  this  point  I  had  been  much  hum- 


AN  EVANGELIST  251 

bled,  and  had  been  trying  to  profit  by  every  word 
of  wisdom ;  but  no\v  I  laid  down  the  paper  and  had 
a  few  moments  of  sinless  enjoyment,  for  this  inci- 
dent had  been  lifted  bodily  out  of  life,  with  only 
some  change  in  names,  and  was  the  only  fact  in  the 
book.  A  poor  puling  idealist! — yet  even  in  my 
most  foolish  flights  I  had  kept  some  hold  on  life — 
but  here  was  Elijah  Higginbotham  sitting  calmly 
in  my  study  and  suggesting  that  I  was  a  realist  of 
such  a  pronounced  and  shameless  character  that 
my  books  were  not  fit  for  family  reading. 

When  I  pressed  him  for  some  evidence  of  his 
charge,  he  cited  "  Posty,"  and  spoke  briefly  but 
strongly  about  that  unfortunate  man's  taste  for  alco- 
holic liquors. 

"  Could  I  reconcile  it  with  my  conscience  to  in- 
troduce such  a  man  to  the  Christian  public,  and 
was  I  not  aware  of  the  injury  which  drink  was  do- 
ing in  our  country  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,"  I  said,  "  my  business  was 
to  represent  life  in  a  Scots  parish,  within  limits, 
as  I  had  seen  it,  and  although  I  say  it  with  deep 
regret,  and  hope  the  matter  will  never  be  men- 
tioned outside  this  room,  every  Scot  is  not  a  rigid 
and  bigoted  abstainer — a  few,  I  hope  fewer  every 
year,  do  '  taste.'  " 

"  We  are  all  perfectly  aware  of  that,  and  more 
than  a  few," — which  was  not  generous  on  his  part, 
— "  but  that  is  not  the  question.  It  is  whether 
you  as  a  respectable— and  I  would  fain  believe  in 


252  AN  EVANGELIST 

spite  of  what  I  have  read — Christian  man,  ought 
deliberately  to  condone  and  countenance  this  con- 
duct." 

"  Surely,  sir,  you  do  not  suppose  for  one  moment 
that  I  have  the  slightest  sympathy  with  intem- 
perance, or  that  I  did  not  deeply  regret  the  habits 
into  which  Posty  had  fallen!  Had  I  known  that 
you  or  any  intelligent  person  would  have  imagined 
such  a  thing,  I  would  have  added  footnotes,  when- 
ever Posty  forgot  himself,  such  as  ( I )  The  author 
deeply  regrets  Posty 's  conduct;  (2)  The  author 
repudiates  Posty's  language  with  all  his  heart." 

"  It  might  have  saved  misunderstanding."  Elijah 
regarded  me  dubiously.  "  I  would  certainly  not 
have  judged  that  you  felt  so  strongly  from  the 
book." 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  wrong,  for  again  and  again 
I  simply  wrestled  with  Posty  to  take  the  blue  rib- 
bon; but  you  know  one  should  not  boast,  and  it 
would  have  sounded  egotistical  to  obtrude  these  ef- 
forts, unhappily  unsuccessful,  in  the  book. 

"  It  is,"  I  ventured  to  add  with  some  pathos, 
"  very  hard  that  I  should  first  of  all  have  had 
to  suffer  from  my  association,  even  in  a  literary 
sense,  with  Posty,  and  then  afterwards  to  be  treated 
by  religious  and  philanthropic  persons  as  if  I  had 
been  his  boon  companion." 

"  No,  no ;  don't  put  words  in  my  mouth,"  broke 
in  Elijah.  "  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind ;  but  you 
have  not  been  careful  to  convey  your  own  position," 


AN  EVANGELIST  253 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,  if  I  might  give  you  a  word 
of  advice,  do  not  meddle  with  fiction,  for  you  never 
can  tell  into  what  company  you  may  come.  Why, 
I  may  tell  you  that  '  Posty,'  before  his  lamented 
death,  used  to  haunt  this  room — in  a  literary 
sense,  of  course — and  some  evenings  I  was  terri- 
fied. 

"  If  he  were  (comparatively)  sober  he  would 
confine  himself  to  the  news  of  the  district,  and 
the  subject  of  her  Majesty's  mails;  but  if  he  had 
been  tasting  he  always  took  to  theology,  as  Scots 
generally  do,  and  then  he  grew  so  profound  and 
eloquent  on  the  doctrine  of  election  that  if  you 
had  come  in  my  character  would  have  been  worth 
nothing:  you  would  have  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion, not  without  reason,  that  he  had  got  his  refresh- 
ments here." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,"  said  Elijah,  who  had  lost 
his  customary  expression  of  cocksureness  during 
the  last  few  minutes,  "  I  am  out  of  touch  with  the 
market :  am  I  not  right  in  understanding  that  the 
Postman  was  never  alive  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  have  thought  so,  for  it 
would  be  rather  a  severe  reflection  on  his  author; 
but  I  think  he  must  have  had  some  life,  else  you 
would  not  have  done  him  (and  me)  the  honour  of 
so  much  attention." 

"  He  was  your  manufacture  or  creation,  in  fact 
done  for  the  book ;  put  it  as  you  please — you  know 
what  I  mean" — and  my  visitor  grew  impatient. 


254  AN  EVANGELIST 

"  Then,  if  that  be  so,  you  could  make  him  say  and 
do  what  you  pleased." 

"  In  fact,  take  the  blue  ribbon  and  become  an 
example  for  temperance  speeches." 

"Why  not?"  replied  Elijah  stoutly;  "it  might 
have  done  good." 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,"  I  said  with  much  solemni- 
ty, "be  thankful  that  in  your  busy  and  blameless 
life  you  have  never  meddled  with  fiction,  save,  I 
fancy,  in  commercial  transactions;  for  you  have 
escaped  trials  of  anxiety  and  disappointment  beyond 
anything  in  the  markets.  You  suppose,  I  notice, 
that  because  a  story-teller  creates  certain  characters, 
he  can  do  with  them  as  he  pleases,  putting  words 
into  their  mouths  and  dictating  their  marriages." 

"  Well,  naturally  I  do." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir.  Once  these  characters 
are  fairly  started  on  their  career,  and  come  of  age, 
as  it  were,  they  go  their  own  way,  and  the  whole  of 
their  author's  time  is  taken  up  following  them, 
remonstrating  with  them,  and  trying,  generally  in 
vain,  to  get  them  to  work  out  his  plan.  Now  you 
would  say,  I  fancy,  that  the  poor  author  could  at 
least  settle  their  marriages." 

"  I  would  do  so,"  said  Elijah  grimly,  "  if  I  were 
writing." 

"  Unfortunately  that  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
and  delicate  parts  of  a  poor  novelist's  work,  and  he 
fails  as  often  as  he  succeeds.  The  man  marries 
the  wrong  woman,  and  vice  versa,  till  the  author  is 


AN  EVANGELIST  255 

in  despair,  and  sometimes  wishes  he  had  never  called 
such  a  set  of  rebels  into  existence." 

Elijah  looked  incredulous. 

"  I  can  assure  you,  you  never  know  what  secret 
they  may  have  in  their  past  lives,  or  what  love  affairs 
are  going  on  behind  your  back.  I'll  give  you  an 
illustration,  if  I  may  quote  from  very  simple  fiction. 
A  lady  wrote  me,  after  the  publication  of  the  Brier 
Bush,  that  she  believed  Drumsheugh  was  in  love 
with  Marget  Howe,  and  wished  to  know  whether 
this  was  the  case  ?  I  replied  that  this  suspicion  had 
crossed  my  own  mind,  and  that  I  was  watching 
events.  And  as  you  have  done  me  the  honour  of 
reading  Auld  Lang  Syne,  you  will  remember  that 
Drumsheugh  had  been  a  faithful,  although  unde- 
clared lover  of  Marget  since  early  manhood.  Yet  it 
came  on  me  as  a  surprise ;  and  if  any  one  had  said, 
Why  did  not  you  tell  this  sooner?  my  answer  would 
have  been,  I  did  not  know.  If  I  am  not  wearying 
you,  Mr.  Higginbotham — I  am  on  my  defence,  and 
I  should  like  to  have  your  good  opinion — I  may 
confess  that  I  tried  to  arrange,  in  a  book,  a  girl's 
love  affairs,  and  she  married  the  wrong  man,  one 
quite  unsuited  for  her,  and  the  result  was — although 
this  is  again  a  secret — they  have  had  many  unneces- 
sary trials.  No,  no,  we  are  helpless  creatures,  we 
so-called  authors ;  poor  mother  hens,  beseeching 
from  the  edge  of  the  pond  and  lamenting,  while  the 
brood  of  ducklings  swim  away  in  all  directions." 

"  That's  all  very  well ;  and,  as  writing  is  not  in 


256  AN  EVANGELIST 

my  line,  you  may  be  right;  but  I  have  not  come 
to  my  most  serious  ground  of  complaint,  and  that 
is  the  Postman's — er — judgment  and  future  lot." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  waited  for  the  indictment. 

"  Here,  according  to  your  own  description,  is  a 
man  " — and  Elijah  checked  off  the  list  of  my  poor 
gossip's  sins  on  his  fingers — "  who  makes  no  profes- 
sion of  religion — vital  religion,  I  mean,  for  theology 
is  a  mere  matter  of  the  head — who  indulged  in 
spirituous  liquors  to  excess,  who  refused  tracts, 
when  they  were  offered,  with  contempt,  who  to  all 
appearance  had  never  known  any  saving  change. 
He  dies  suddenly,  and  bravely,  I  admit,  but  with 
no  sign  of  repentance,  and  this  man,  dying  in  his 
sin,  is  sent  to  Heaven  as  if  he  were  a  saint.  If  that 
is  what  happened  with  the  Postman,"  summed  up 
Elijah  with  uncompromising  decision,  "  then  I  do 
not  know  the  Gospel.  '  He  that  believeth  shall  be 
saved,  and  he  that  believeth  not  shall  be  damned,' 
is  plain  enough.  He  wasn't  saved  here — no  one 
could  say  that.  '  As  the  tree  falleth,  so  shall  it  lie.' 
He  couldn't  be  saved  there.  Yes,  it  may  sound  se- 
vere, but  it  is  the  truth,  and  there  is  no  room  for 
sentiment  in  religion;  your  story  is  grossly  mis- 
leading, and  may  do  injury  to  many  precious  souls." 

"  By  moving  people,  do  you  mean,  to  give  their 
lives  for  others  and  to  forget  themselves  ?  "  I  dared 
to  ask. 

"  I  don't  deny  that  it  was  a  gallant  deed  to  jump 
into  the  river  and  save  the  girl's  life,"  replied  Elijah 


AN  EVANGELIST  257 

hastily.  "  I  appreciate  that ;  but  it's  not  by  works 
that  any  one  can  be  saved.  What  right  had  you  to 
send  that  man  to  Heaven  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,  you  are  still  making  me  the 
scapegoat  for  other  men's  acts.  I  was  only  the 
historian.  It  was  Jamie  Soutar  and  Carmichael, 
the  Free  Kirk  minister,  who  held  a  council  on 
the  road  one  day,  and  decided  that  it  must  be  well 
with  Posty  because  he  died  to  save  a  little  child. 
Jamie  has  always  been  a  trial  to  me,  and  a  ground 
of  criticism,  especially  because  he  used  to  cloak 
his  good  deeds  with  falsehood  to  escape  praise  in- 
stead of  proclaiming  them  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets  as  the  good  people  used  to  do.  So  little 
sympathy  have  I  with  Jamie,  that  before  the  proof 
sheets  of  the  book  left  this  room  I  sent  for  Jamie 
(in  a  literary  sense),  and  he  came  (in  the  same 
sense),  and  I  placed  him  just  where  you  are  sitting 
and  spoke  to  him  (always  in  the  same  sense)  very 
seriously.  May  I  tell  you — as  it  will  further  vindi- 
cate me — what  I  said  ? 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  for  your  patience.  '  James,'  I 
said — for  if  any  one  is  usually  called  Jamie  and  on 
some  occasion  you  say  James,  it  is  very  impressive 
— '  if  these  sheets  are  printed  as  they  stand,  I'm 
afraid  both  you  and  I  will  suffer  at  the  hands  of  the 
good  people,  and,  with  your  permission,  there  is  one 
passage  at  least  I  would  like  to  amend.' 

"'What  is  it?'  said  Jamie  quickly,  but,  I  felt, 
unresponsively. 


258  AN  EVANGELIST 

" '  It's  where  you  go  up  to  London  solely  to  visit 
the  poor  servant  lass,  and  then  say  you  are  in 
charge  of  Drumsheugh's  cattle;  where  you  assure 
Lily  that  her  mistress  had  been  enquiring  for  her, 
when  you  had  just  rated  her  mistress  for  cruel 
carelessness;  where  you  give  Lily  twenty  pounds 
as  from  her  mistress,  while  it  is  your  own  money : 
all  to  cheer  a  poor  dying  lassie,  James,  I  admit,  but 
not  true,  not  true.' 

"  '  What  wud  ye  hev  me  to  say  ?  '  enquired  Jamie, 
but  very  drily  indeed. 

"  '  Well,  I  have  written  a  sentence  or  two,  James, 
which  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  insert,  and  I  am 
sure  our  critics  will  be  quite  satisfied ;  it's  what  they 
would  say  themselves.' 

" '  Read  on,'  said  Jamie,  looking  very  hard. 

"  '  Here  I  am,  Lily,  a'  the  way  frae  Drumtochty, 
ane's  errand  to  see  ye — a  matter  o'  five  pounds  out- 
lay, I  reckon,  but  what's  that  'atween  friends? 
And  here's  twenty  punds  o'  ma  hard-earned  savin's 
a've  brocht  ye ;  ye'll  pay  me  back  gin  ye  be  spared ; 
an'  gin  things  come  to  the  worst,  yir  grandmother's 
honest;  interest  needna  be  mentioned  unless  ye  in- 
sist, and  ye  maunna  tell  onybody  what  a've  done 
for  ye,  except  a  friend  or  two  in  the  Glen.' 

"  '  Are  ye  prood  o'  that  passage  ?  '  enquired  Jamie, 
and  his  tone  was  distinctly  disagreeable ;  '  d'ye  think 
it  a  credit  to  you  or  me  ? ' 

'  It's  safe,  James,  and  will  be  acceptable.' 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,  you  will  have  some  idea 


AN  EVANGELIST 


259 


what  sort  of  men  I've  had  to  deal  with,  and  will  be 
more  merciful  to  me  when  I  tell  you  that  Jamie 
walked  to  the  door  without  a  word  and  then  gave 
me  his  answer :  '  Ye  hev  ae  Pharisee  in  yer  book ; 
an'  gin  ye  want  two,  a'm  no  the  man.'  You  can 
see  yourself  what  a  man  of  Jamie  Soutar's  peculiar 
disposition  would  do,  if  he  had  the  power,  with  poor 
Posty,  who  gave  his  life  for  a  little  maid." 

"  More  than  Jamie  Soutar  would  ...  in 
fact,  let  Posty  off  " — Elijah  spoke  with  some  feel- 
ing— "  and  it's  a  mercy  that  such  decisions  are  not 
in  our  hands.  We  must  just  go  by  Revelation,  and 
I  do  not  see  any  way  of  escape.  As  regards  Jamie, 
I  cannot  approve  of  deliberate  falsehood,  and  I  wish 
to  say  so  distinctly,  but  I  understand  and  .  .  . 
appreciate  his  motive." 

As  Elijah  said  this,  certain  stories  came  suddenly 
into  my  mind:  how  he  would  have  a  hot  alterca- 
tion with  some  man  on  religion,  but  afterwards 
would  do  him  a  good  turn  in  business;  how  a 
young  fellow  had  insulted  him  in  a  'bus,  and  in  a 
great  strait,  had  been  helped  by  some  unknown 
person,  and  he  always  believed  himself  that  the 
person  was  Elijah.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  evan- 
gelist's face  had  relaxed  a  little,  and  that  beneath 
this  casing  of  doctrine  a  heart  might  be  beating. 
So  I  went  on  with  my  defence. 

"  The  other  judge  who  took  upon  him  to  reward 
'  Posty  '  in  the  next  world  was  the  Free  Kirk  min- 
ister, and  I  always  regarded  Carmichael  as  a  heady 


26o  AN  EVANGELIST 

young  man,  too  much  inclined  to  take  up  with  new 
views,  and  not  sufficiently  respectful  to  the  past. 
But  young  men  have  generous  impulses,  and  I  sup- 
pose Carmichael's  heart  got  the  better  of  his  head 
as  he  thought  of  Posty  giving  all  he  had — his  life — 
for  the  drowning  lassie." 

"  He  would  have  been  unworthy  the  name  of  a 
man,  let  alone  a  minister,"  broke  in  Elijah,  "  if  he 
had  not  admired  that  deed.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
.  .  .  appreciate  the  devotion  of  such  a  man? 
It  was  admirable,  and  Mr.  Carmichael  is  to  be  ex- 
cused if  he  .  .  .  did  go  too  far." 

So  Elijah  really  was  the  "  Produce  Broker  "  who 
headed  the  subscription  for  the  widows  and  orphans 
of  the  gallant  lifeboats-men.  Some  had  laughed 
the  idea  to  scorn,  saying  that  he  would  never  give 
£100  to  any  object  except  tracts  or  missions.  They 
did  not  know  my  evangelist.  Whatever  he  com- 
pelled himself  to  think  the  Almighty  would  do  with 
men,  Posty  had  been  very  well  off  indeed  with 
Elijah  as  judge. 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham,"  I  said,  taking  a  rapid  reso- 
lution, "  it  does  not  matter  what  I  think,  for  a  hum- 
ble story-teller  is  no  theologian,  and  it  matters  as 
little  what  my  friends  of  the  book  thought :  let  me 
tell  the  story  over  again  in  brief,  and  I  shall  leave 
you  to  pronounce  '  Posty's  '  doom." 

"  It's  far  later  than  I  supposed,"  and  Elijah  rose 
hastily,  "  and  I'm  afraid  I  must  go :  the  market  is 
very  sensitive  at  present.  Some  other  day  we  can 


AN  EVANGELIST  261 

talk  the  matter  over.  I  have  no  wish  to  be  unchar- 
itable, whatever  people  may  think  of  me,  but  we 
must  obey  the  truth.  Well,  if  you  insist — just  ten 
minutes.  .  .  .  It  is  not  by  our  feelings,  how- 
ever, that  such  things  are  to  be  decided."  Elijah 
sat  down  again,  looking  just  a  shade  too  stern, 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  his  own  integrity,  and 
not  perfectly  sure  that  the  Bible  would  back 
him. 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Macfadyen's  youngest  daughter, 
you  remember,  who  fell  into  the  Tochty,  and  Elsie 
was  everybody's  favourite.  She  was  a  healthy  and 
winsome  child,  with  fair  hair  and  bright  laughing 
eyes.  .  .  ." 

"Blue?"  suddenly  enquired  Elijah,  and  then 
added  in  some  confusion,  "  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I 
was  thinking  of  a  child  I  once  knew,  and  .  .  . 
loved.  Go  on." 

"Yes,  blue,  about  the  colour  of  a  forget-me- 
not.  .  .  ." 

"  Hers  were  darker,  like  the  sea,  you  know,  and 
in  her  last  illness  they  were  as  deep  ...  I 
interrupt  you." 

"  People  liked  Elsie  because  she  was  such  a  merry 
soul :  coming  to  meet  you  on  the  road,  nodding 
to  you  over  a  hedge,  or  giving  you  a  kiss  if  you 
wished." 

Elijah  nodded  as  one  who  understood;  yet  he 
was  a  wifeless,  childless  man.  Some  child  friend- 
ship most  likely ;  and  now,  even  as  I  glance  at  him 


262  AN  EVANGELIST 

from  the  corner  of  my  eyes,  his  friend  is  putting 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  Would  they  recognise 
him  in  the  'bus  at  this  moment? 

"  Her  mother  was  washing  blankets  by  the  edge 
of  the  river,  which  was  in  flood,  and  rising,  and  the 
lassie  was  playing  beside  her  with  a  doll.  She  was 
singing  at  the  very  time  in  gladness  of  heart  and 
thinking  of  no  danger." 

"  Poor  little  woman !  "  It  gave  one  a  start,  for 
this  was  a  new  voice,  unknown  in  the  lard  market 
or  the  religious  meeting.  What  had  become  of 
Elijah  Higginbotham  ? 

"  When  she  either  stooped  too  near  the  flood, 
or  a  larger  wave  had  caught  her  where  she  sat, 
and  at  the  sound  of  a  scream  her  mother  looked 
round,  and  saw  the  wee  lassie  disappear  in  the 
black  cauldron  which  whirled  round  and  round 
within  the  rocks." 

"  Ah !  "  groaned  Elijah,  visibly  moved,  who  had 
spoken  calmly  of  the  everlasting  damnation  of  the 
greater  portion  of  the  human  race  times  without 
number. 

"  Her  mother,  in  her  agony,  cried  to  God  to 
save  Elsie." 

"  She  could  not  have  done  better,"  cried  Elijah ; 
"  and  He  answered  her  prayer." 

"  While  she  prayed,  Posty  was  coming  down  the 
footpath  behind,  and  he  heard  her  cry." 

"  Posty  was  the  instrument,"  and  Elijah  rapped 
the  floor  with  his  stick.  "  He  obeyed  the  Divine 


AN  EVANGELIST  263 

command  within,  and  he  cannot  go  without  some 
reward." 

"  He  tore  off  his  coat  in  an  instant,  and  then — 
I  suppose  if  you  had  been  there  you  would  have 
besought  him  to  bethink  himself :  and  to  remember 
that  he  was  a  man  unfit  to  die!  Is  not  that  so?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Elijah,  "  you  do  me  less  than  justice, 
and  .  .  .  insult  me.  What  right  have  you  to 
ask  me  such  a  question?  I  have  preached,  and  I 
will  preach  again ;  but  there's  a  time  for  preach- 
ing, and  a  time  to  refrain  from  preaching.  I  can 
swim,  and  I  have  saved  two  lives  in  my  time.  I 
am  a  fool  for  boasting,  but  I  would  .  .  ." 

"  I  believe  you  would,  Mr.  Higginbotham  " — I 
saw  an  able-bodied  man  without  fear — "  and  I  beg 
your  pardon  .  .  ." 

Elijah  waved  his  hand.  I  was  to  go  on  to  the 
end  without  delay. 

"  It  seemed  fifteen  minutes,  it  was  only  one, 
while  the  mother  hung  over  the  edge  of  the  black 
seething  whirlpool,  and  then  he  came  up,  bleeding 
from  a  wound  in  the  forehead,  without  Elsie." 

"  I  take  you  to  witness,"  declared  Elijah  solemn- 
ly, "  that  I  said  he  was  a  brave  man.  Yes,  he  had 
the  natural  virtues,  and  some  who  make  a  profession 
have  none." 

"  For  a  few  seconds  he  hung  on  to  the  edge  to 
get  breath,  and  Mrs.  Macfadyen  herself  besought 
him  not  to  risk  his  life,  for  he  was  a  husband  and 
father ;  but  he  only  answered :  '  I'll  hae  Elsie  oot/  " 


264  AN  EVANGELIST 

"  They  forgot  themselves, — do  you  mark  that  ? — 
both  of  them,"  cried  Elijah.  "  Whose  spirit  was 
that  ?  Didn't  they  keep  the  commandment  of  Love, 
which  is  the  chief  commandment?  and — answer 
me — can  any  one  keep  that  commandment  without 
grace  ?  " 

It  was  not  with  me  but  with  himself  the  evange- 
list was  arguing,  and  I  went  on : 

"  He  came  up  again,  this  time  with  Elsie  in  one 
arm,  a  poor,  little  limp  bundle  of  clothes,  her  yellow 
hair  spread  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes  closed,  I 
was  afraid,  for  ever." 

"But  she  lived,  didn't  she?"  There  was  no 
Elijah  Higginbotham  anywhere  to  be  found  now, 
only  an  excited  man,  concerned  about  the  saving 
of  a  little  maid.  "  Excuse  me,  I  didn't  read  that 
part  about  the  saving  so  carefully  as  I  ought.  I 
was  more  concerned  about  .  .  .  the  judgment." 

"  Yes,  Elsie  was  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  but 
Posty  had  not  strength  to  do  more  than  hand  her 
to  her  mother,  and  then,  exhausted  by  the  struggle 
with  the  water,  he  fell  back,  and  was  dead  when  he 
was  found." 

"  What  were  you  doing  that  you  did  not  lay  hold 
of  Posty  and  pull  him  out?"  thundered  Elijah; 
"  you  seem  to  have  been  there." 

"  Only  in  a  literary  sense,"  I  hastened  to  explain, 
for  it  now  seemed  likely  that  the  evangelist,  having 
come  to  condemn  Posty,  was  at>out  to  take  up  the 
cudgels  on  his  behalf. 


AN  EVANGELIST  265 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  had  been  there  in  a  phys- 
ical sense ;  you  would  have  been  far  more  useful !  " 
replied  Elijah.  "And  so  he  died  and  Elsie  was 
saved  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Posty  died  and  went  to  his  account ;  that 
was  how  he  lived,  and  that  was  how  he  died."  And 
I  waited. 

Elijah  sprang  out  of  his  seat  and  stood  on  the 
hearthrug,  his  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  shining. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  he  tasted ;  I  wish  he  hadn't. 
It's  a  pity  he  did  not  think  more  about  his  own 
soul ;  I  wish  he  had.  But  Posty  was  a  hero,  and 
played  the  man  that  day.  Posty  will  have  another 
chance.  Posty  loved,  and  God  is  Love;  if  there's 
such  a  thing  as  justice,  it's  all  right  with  Posty." 

We  did  not  look  at  one  another  for  a  full  minute 
— a  print  of  Perugino's  Crucifixion  over  the  mantel- 
piece interested  me,  and  Elijah's  eye  seemed  to  be 
arrested  by  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room — a  minute  later  we  shook 
hands  upon  the  basis  of  the  Divine  Love  and 
our  humanity,  and  nothing  more  passed  be- 
tween us. 

From  my  window  I  could  see  him  go  along  the 
street.  He  stopped  and  slapped  his  leg  triumph- 
antly. I  seemed  to  hear  the  evangelist  say  again 
with  great  joy :  "  It's  all  right  with  Posty !  "  I  said, 
"And  it's  all  right  with  Elijah  Higginbotham," 


THE   COLLECTOR'S    INCON- 
SISTENCY 


THE  COLLECTOR'S  INCON- 
SISTENCY 

There  were  many  capable  men  in  ttye  session  of 
the  North  Free  Kirk,  Muirtown — such  as  Bailie 
MacCallum,  from  whom  Drumsheugh  bought  Kate 
Carnegie's  wedding  present  after  a  historical  tussle 
— but  they  were  all  as  nothing  beside  the  Collector, 
and  this  was  so  well  known  in  Muirtown  that 
people  spoke  freely  of  the  Collector's  kirk.  When 
he  arrived  in  Muirtown,  it  was  understood  that  he 
sampled  six  kirks,  three  Established  and  three  Free 
— the  rumour  about  the  Original  Seceders  was 
never  authenticated — and  that  the  importance  of 
his  visits  was  thoroughly  appreciated.  No  unseem- 
ly fuss  was  made  on  his  appearance;  but  an  ex- 
bailie,  or  the  Clerk  to  the  Road  Trustees,  or  some 
such  official  person,  happened  to  meet  him  at  the 
door,  and  received  him  into  his  pew  with  quiet, 
unostentatious  respect;  and  when  he  left,  officious 
deacons  did  not  encompass  his  exit,  rubbing  their 
hands  and  asking  how  he  liked  their  place, 
but  an  elder  journeying  in  the  same  direction  en- 
tered into  general  conversation  and  was  able  to 
mention  with  authority  next  day  what  the  Collector 
had  said.  Various  reasons  were  canvassed  for  his 

269 


270  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

settlement  in  the  North  Kirk,  where  old  Dr.  Pitten- 
driegh  was  then  drawing  near  to  the  close  of  his 
famous  exposition  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans, 
published  after  the  Doctor's  death,  and  sold  to 
the  extent  of  fifty-seven  copies  among  the  con- 
gregation. It  was,  for  one  thing,  a  happy  coinci- 
dence that  on  that  occasion  the  Doctor,  having 
taken  an  off  day  from  Romans,  had  preached  from 
the  text  "  Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  which 
are  Caesar's,"  and  had  paid  a  high  tribute  to  the 
character  of  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Crown. 
Some  importance,  no  doubt,  also  attached  to  the 
fact  that  the  Procurator  Fiscal  sat  in  the  "  North 
Free,"  austere  and  mysterious,  whose  power  of 
detecting  crime  bordered  on  the  miraculous,  and 
whose  ways  were  veiled  in  impenetrable  darkness, 
so  that  any  one  with  a  past  felt  uncomfortable  in 
his  presence;  and  it  was  almost  synonymous  with 
doom  to  say  of  a  man,  "  The  Fiscal  has  his  eye 
on  him."  Perhaps  it  was  not  without  influence 
that  the  Supervisor,  who  was  the  Collector's  sub- 
ordinate, with  power  also  of  official  life  and  death, 
had  long  sat  under  Dr.  Pittendriegh — the  Doctor 
and  the  Collector  were  indeed  the  only  persons 
the  Supervisor  did  sit  under.  He  had  admirable 
opportunities  of  enlarging  to  the  Collector  on  the 
solid  and  edifying  qualities  of  Dr.  Pittendriegh's 
ministry,  and  the  unfortunate  defects  in  the 
preaching  and  pastoral  gifts  of  neighbouring 
ministers,  in  the  intervals  of  business,  when  the 


INCONSISTENCY  271 

two  of  them  were  not  investigating  into  the  de- 
linquencies of  some  officer  of  excise,  who  had 
levied  a  tax  on  the  produce  of  Dunleith  Distillery 
not  only  in  money  but  also  in  kind;  or  concoct- 
ing cunning  plans  for  the  detection  of  certain 
shepherds  who  were  supposed  to  be  running  an 
entirely  unlicensed  still  in  the  recesses  of  Glen 
Urtach.  It  was  at  least  through  this  official,  him- 
self an  elder,  that  the  Collector's  decision  was 
intimated  to  the  Doctor  and  the  other  authorities 
of  the  North  Kirk,  and  they  lost  no  time  in  giving 
it  proper  and  irrevocable  effect.  The  Supervisor 
set  an  example  of  patriotic  sacrifice  by  surrender- 
ing his  pew  in  the  centre  of  the  church  and 
retiring  to  the  modest  obscurity  of  the  side  seats 
so  that  the  Collector  could  be  properly  housed; 
for  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment  that 
he  should  sit  anywhere  except  in  the  eye  of  the 
public,  or  that  ordinary  persons — imagine  for  in- 
stance young  children — should  be  put  in  the  same 
pew  with  him.  So  he  sat  there  alone,  for  he  had 
neither  wife  nor  child,  from  January  to  December, 
except  when  on  his  official  leave — which  he  took 
not  for  pleasure  but  from  a  sense  of  duty — and  he 
gave  a  calm,  judicial  attention  to  all  the  statements 
put  before  him  by  the  preacher.  Very  soon  after 
this  arrangement  the  Doctor  discovered  that  the 
Deacons'  Court  required  strengthening,  and,  as  a 
man  of  affairs,  the  Collector  was  added  at  the 
head  of  the  list;  and  when  a  year  later  a  happy 


272  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

necessity  compelled  an  election  of  elders,  the  Col- 
lector was  raised  to  this  higher  degree,  and  there- 
after was  "  thirled  "  to  the  North  Free,  and  the 
history  of  that  kirk  and  of  the  Collector  became 
one. 

What  exactly  the  great  man  collected,  or  what 
functions  and  powers  might  be  included  in  his 
office,  were  not  matters  Muirtown  pretended  to 
define  or  dared  to  pry  into.  It  was  enough  that 
he  was,  in  the  highest  and  final  sense  of  the  word, 
Collector — no  mere  petty  official  of  a  local  body, 
but  the  representative  of  the  Imperial  Government 
and  the  commissioned  servant  of  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen,  raised  above  principalities  and  powers  in 
the  shape  of  bailies  and  provosts,  and  owning  no 
authority  save,  as  was  supposed,  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer.  For  any  one  to  confound  him 
with  the  collector  of,  say,  water  rates  was  either 
abysmal  ignorance  or,  it  might  be,  although  one 
hoped  not,  a  piece  of  Radical  insolence  and  a 
despising  of  dignities.  It  was  good  manners  to 
call  him  by  his  title — many  would  have  had  diffi- 
culty in  mentioning  his  private  name,  which 
was,  I  believe,  Thomas  Richard  Thome,  just 
as  the  Queen's,  I  believe,  is  Guelph — and  it  was 
pleasing  to  hear  a  porter  at  the  station  shout,  amid 
a  crowd  of  tourists  going  to  the  Kilspindie  Arms, 
"  Collector's  cab " ;  or  Bailie  MacCallum  on  the 
street,  "  Fine  morning,  Collector  " ;  and  one  did  not 
wonder  that  the  session  of  the  "  North  Free  "  ex- 


INCONSISTENCY  273 

alted  its  head  when  this  kind  of  thing  went  on  at 
its  meetings :  "  Moderator,  with  your  permission,  I 
would  like  to  have  the  mind  of  the  Collector  " ;  and 
then  in  reply,  "  Moderator,  my  views  practically 
coincide  with  those  of  the  Fiscal."  And  there  were 
'  dinner  tables,  such  as  old  Peter  MacCash's,  the 
manager  of  the  Muirtown  Bank,  where  conversa- 
tion reached  a  very  high  level  of  decoration,  and 
nothing  could  be  heard  save  "  Sheriff,"  "  Provost," 
"  Collector,"  "  Town  Clerk,"  "  Fiscal,"  "  Banker," 
"  Doctor,"  "  Dean  of  Guild,"  and  such  like,  till  an 
untitled  person  hardly  dared  to  defend  his  most 
cherished  opinion. 

As  the  movements  of  Government  officials  were 
always  mysterious,  no  one  could  tell  whence  the 
Collector  had  come,  but  it  was  known  to  a  few 
that  he  was  not  really  of  Scots  blood,  and  had  not 
been  bred  in  the  Presbyterian  Kirk.  When  his 
hand  in  the  way  of  Church  rule  was  heavy  on  the 
"  North  Free "  and  certain  sought  anxiously  for 
grounds  of  revolt,  they  were  apt  to  whisper  that, 
after  all,  this  man,  who  laid  down  the  ecclesiastical 
law  with  such  pedantic  accuracy  and  such  in- 
flexible severity,  was  but  a  gentile  who  had  estab- 
lished himself  in  the  true  fold,  or  at  most  a 
proselyte  of  the  gate.  They  even  dared  to  ask 
what,  in  the  matter  of  churches,  he  had  been 
before  he  was  appointed  to  Muirtown;  and  so 
unscrupulous  and  virulent  are  the  mongers  of 
sedition,  as  every  student  of  history  knows,  that 


274  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

some  insinuated  that  the  Collector  had  been  a 
Nonconformist;  while  others,  considering  that  this 
violence  could  only  overreach  itself,  contented  them- 
selves with  allusions  to  Swedenborg.  Most  of  his 
brethren  treated  him  as  if  he  had  been  within  the 
covenant  from  the  beginning,  and  had  been  granted 
the  responsible  privilege  of  Scots  birth  either  be- 
cause in  course  of  time  they  had  forgotten  the  fact 
of  alien  origin  in  face  of  every  appearance  to  the 
contrary,  or  because,  as  we  all  need  mercy,  it  is  not 
wise  to  search  too  curiously  into  the  dark  chapters 
of  a  man's  past. 

Upon  his  part  the  Collector  had  wonderfully 
adapted  himself  to  the  new  environment,  and  it 
defied  the  keenest  critic  to  find  in  him  any  trace 
of  a  former  home.  It  is  true  that  he  did  not  use 
the  Scots  dialect,  merely  employing  a  peculiarly 
felicitous  word  at  a  time  for  purposes  of  effect, 
but  he  had  stretched  his  vowels  to  the  orthodox 
breadth,  and  could  roll  off  the  letter  "  r  "  with  a 
sense  of  power.  "  Dour  "  he  could  say  in  a  way 
that  deceived  even  the  elect.  Sometimes  he 
startled  the  Presbytery  with  a  sound  like  "  Yah, 
yah,"  which  indicates  the  shallow  sharpness  of 
the  English,  instead  of  "  He-e-er,  he-e-er,"  which 
reveals  as  in  a  symbol  the  solidity  of  the  Scot; 
but  then  one  cannot  live  in  London  for  years — as 
an  official  must — and  be  quite  unscathed;  and  an 
acute  observer  might  mark  a  subdued  smartness 
in  dress — white  tie  instead  of  stock  on  sacrament 


INCONSISTENCY  275 

Sabbaths — which  was  not  indigenous;  but  then  it 
must  be  allowed  that  one  in  his  position  was 
obliged  to  be,  to  a  certain  degree,  a  man  of  the 
world.  No  one  ever  caught  him  quoting  a  clause 
from  the  Prayer-Book  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
he  was  heard  at  his  family  devotions,  or  breaking 
into  a  riotous  "  Hallelujah "  in  the  midst  of  a 
sermon.  If  misfortune  had  thrown  him  into 
Episcopalian  or  Methodist  folds  in  earlier  years, 
he  had  since  been  thoroughly  purged  and  cleansed. 
He  had  a  way  of  alluding  to  "  the  Disruption 
principles  laid  down  in  1843,"  or  "  mv  younger 
brethren  will  allow  me  to  say  that  the  Disruption," 
which  was  very  convincing;  and  on  the  solitary 
occasion  when  he  made  a  set  speech  in  public — for 
his  strength  lay  in  silence  rather  than  eloquence — 
he  had  a  peroration  on  our  "  covenanted  fore- 
fathers "  which  left  an  indelible  impression.  It  was 
understood  that  he  spent  his  holidays  in  visiting 
remote  districts  of  the  Highlands  where  the  people 
took  strong  peppermints  in  church  without  scruple 
or  apology,  and  preserved  the  primeval  simplicity 
of  Presbyterian  worship  entire ;  and  it  was  supposed 
that  he  was  looking  for  a  birthplace  which  would 
finally  establish  his  position  as  an  elder  of  the  Kirk. 
What  gave  the  Collector  his  supreme  influence 
in  the  session  of  the  Free  North,  and  extended 
his  sphere  of  ecclesiastical  influence  to  the  Pres- 
bytery of  Muirtown,  was  an  amazing  knowledge 
of  Church  law  and  a  devouring  love  for  order. 


276  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

The  latter  may  have  been  the  natural  outcome  of 
his  professional  training,  wherein  red-tape  has  been 
raised  to  a  science,  but  the  former  was  an  acquired 
accomplishment.  Dr.  Pittendriegh  remembered 
almost  painfully  that  on  the  day  of  his  election 
to  the  eldership  the  Collector  enquired  the  names 
of  the  most  reliable  authorities  on  Church  law,  and 
that  he  (Dr.  Pittendriegh)  had  not  only  given  him 
a  list,  but  had  urged  him  to  their  study,  judging 
from  past  experience  that  no  man  was  likely  to 
go  too  far  in  the  pursuit  of  this  branch  of  knowl- 
edge. For  a  while  the  Collector  sat  silent  and 
observant  at  the  meetings  of  Session,  and  then  sud- 
denly one  evening,  and  in  the  quietest  manner,  he 
inquired  whether  a  certain  proceeding  was  in  order. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  that  is  how  we  have  done 
here  for  twenty  years,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  just 
a  flavour  of  indignation,  and  the  startled  Fiscal  con- 
firmed the  statement. 

"  That  may  be  so,  Moderator,  and  I  am  obliged 
to  Mr.  Fiscal  for  his  assurance,  but  you  will  par- 
don me  for  saying,  with  much  respect,  that  the  point 
is  not  whether  this  action  has  been  the  custom,  but 
whether  it  is  legal.  On  that,  Moderator,  I  should 
like  your  deliverance." 

He  took  the  opportunity,  however,  of  showing 
that  only  one  deliverance  could  be  given  by  long 
quotations  from  Church  law,  supported  by  refer- 
ences which  extended  back  to  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Every  one  knew  that,  unlike  his  distin- 


INCONSISTENCY  277 

guished  colleague  in  Muirtown  Dr.  Dowbiggin,  the 
minister  of  the  Free  North  was  more  at  home  in 
Romans  than  in  Canon  Law;  but,  like  every  true 
Scot,  he  loved  a  legal  point,  and  he  not  only  an- 
nounced at  next  Session  meeting  that  the  Collector 
was  quite  right,  but  expressed  his  satisfaction  that 
they  had  such  a  valuable  addition  to  their  number 
in  the  Collector.  His  position  from  that  evening 
was  assured  beyond  dispute;  and  when  the  Clerk 
of  Session  resigned  on  the  ground  of  long  service, 
but  really  through  terror  that  there  might  be  a  weak 
place  in  his  minutes,  the  Collector  succeeded,  and 
made  the  proceedings  of  the  Free  North  Session  to 
be  a  wonder  unto  many.  It  was  a  disappointment 
to  some  that,  when  the  Collector  was  sent  to  the 
Presbytery,  he  took  no  part  for  several  meetings; 
but  others  boldly  declared  that  even  in  that  high 
place  he  was  only  biding  his  time,  which  came  when 
the  Presbytery  debated  for  one  hour  and  ten  min- 
utes whether  a  certain  meeting  had  been  pro  re  nata, 
or  in  hunc  effectum,  while  the  learned  clerk  listened 
with  delight  as  one  watches  the  young  people  at 
play. 

"  Moderator,"  said  the  Collector,  "  I  have  given 
the  most  careful  attention  to  the  arguments  on  both 
sides,  and  I  venture  to  suggest  that  the  meeting 
was  neither  pro  re  nata  nor  in  hunc  effectum,  but 
was  a  meeting  per  saltum  " ;  and,  after  referring  to 
Pardovan's  Institutes,  he  sat  down  amid  a  silence 
which  might  be  felt.  Several  ministers  openly  con- 


278  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

fessed  their  ignorance  one  to  another  with  manifest 
chagrin,  and  one  young  minister  laughed  aloud : 
"  Per  saltum,  I  declare — what  next  ?  "  as  if  it  were 
a  subject  for  jesting. 

"  The  Collector  is  quite  right,  Moderator,"  said 
the  Clerk  with  his  unspeakable  air  of  authority; 
"  the  meeting  referred  to  was  undoubtedly  per 
saltum,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  interfere  prematurely 
with  the  debate  " ;  and  from  that  date  the  Clerk, 
who  used  to  address  his  more  recondite  deliver- 
ances to  Dr.  Dowbiggin  as  the  only  competent  audi- 
ence, was  careful  to  include  the  Collector  in  a  very 
marked  and  flattering  fashion. 

While  it  was  only  human  that  his  congregation 
should  be  proud  of  the  Collector,  and  while  there 
is  no  question  that  he  led  them  in  the  paths  of 
order,  they  sometimes  grumbled — in  corners — and 
grew  impatient  under  his  rule.  He  was  not  only 
not  a  man  given  to  change  himself,  but  he  bitterly 
resented  and  resisted  to  the  uttermost  any  pro- 
posal of  change  on  the  part  of  other  people. 
What  was  in  the  Free  North,  when  he,  so  to  say, 
mounted  the  throne,  was  right,  and  any  departure 
therefrom  he  scented  afar  off  and  opposed  as  folly 
and  mischief.  There  are  men  whom  you  can  con- 
vince by  argument ;  there  are  others  whom  you 
can  talk  round  on  trifles;  but  whether  the  matter 
were  great  or  small — from  Biblical  criticism,  on 
which  the  Collector  took  a  liberal  line,  to  the  print- 
ing of  the  congregational  report,  where  he  would  not 


INCONSISTENCY  279 

allow  a  change  of  type — once  his  mind  was  made 
up  he  remained  unchangeable  and  inaccessible. 
He  prevented  the  introduction  of  hymns  for  ten 
years,  and  never  consented  to  the  innovation  on 
the  ground  of  the  hold  which  the  metrical  psalms 
had  upon  Presbyterians  from  their  earliest  days, 
and  he  did  succeed  in  retaining  that  remarkable 
custom  of  the  Scots  Kirk  by  which  a  communi- 
cant cannot  receive  the  Sacrament  without  first 
presenting  a  leaden  token,  and  his  argument  was 
again  the  sacred  associations  of  the  past.  He  did 
certainly  agree  to  the  recovering  of  the  pulpit 
cushions,  which  the  exposition  of  Romans  had  worn 
bare,  only,  however,  on  the  assurance  of  Bailie  Mac- 
Callum,  given  officially,  that  he  had  the  same  cloth 
in  store ;  but  a  scheme  for  a  ventilating  chamber  in 
the  roof — an  improvement  greatly  needed  in  a 
church  which  was  supposed  to  have  retained  the 
very  air  of  the  Disruption — he  denounced  as  an  ir- 
responsible fad. 

He  gave  much  watchful  attention  to  the  Sabbath 
schools — "  Sunday "  was  a  word  he  abhorred — 
and  between  the  Collector  and  the  younger  people 
engaged  in  that  work  there  was  almost  constant 
conflict,  which  extended  to  every  detail,  and 
came  to  a  head  over  the  matter  of  entertainments. 
It  was  their  belief  that  once  a  year  it  was  neces- 
sary for  the  success  and  well-being  of  a  Sabbath 
school  that  the  children  should  be  gathered  on  an 
evening  and  fed  with  tea  and  buns,  and  afterwards 


280  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

elevated  by  magic  slides  representing  various 
amusing  situations  in  life  and  concluding  with  a 
vivid  picture  of  rats  disappearing  into  a  gaping 
man's  mouth,  which  opened  to  receive  them  with  a 
jerk.  The  fact  that  this  festivity  was  opened  and 
closed  with  a  hymn  in  no  way  sanctified  it  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Collector,  who  declared  it  to  be 
without  any  Scripture  warrant  and  injurious  to  true 
religion,  as  well  as — and  this  was  hardly  less  im- 
portant— quite  without  sanction  by  the  laws  of  the 
Kirk.  By  sheer  force  of  will — the  weight  of 
a  silent,  obstinate  uncompromising  nature,  he 
brought  the  "  treats  " — very  modest,  innocent,  if 
not  particularly  refined  efforts  to  give  some  bright- 
ness to  the  life  of  the  poor  children  in  Muirtown — 
to  an  end,  and  in  place  thereof  he  provided,  at  his 
own  expense,  views  of  the  mission  stations  of  the 
world,  with  a  gratuitous  distribution  of  missionary 
literature.  This  was  endured  for  three  years  with 
much  discontent  and  with  sudden  and  disorderly 
demands  for  the  rats  in  place  of  the  interesting 
although  somewhat  monotonous  faces  of  Chinese 
Christians,  and  then  the  rebellion  was  organized 
which  had  so  unexpected  and  felicitous  a  result. 

The  party  of  the  juniors,  some  of  them  approach- 
ing forty  years  of  age,  took  a  covenant  that  they 
would  stand  by  one  another,  and  they  made  their 
plan  that  upon  a  certain  evening  in  March  they 
would  gather  together  their  corps  of  Muirtown 
Arabs  and  feed  them  with  dainties  even  unto 


INCONSISTENCY  281 

the  extent  of  raisins  and  oranges.  They  were  not 
unconscious  that  oranges,  on  account  of  their  pro- 
nounced colour,  would  be  an  offence  to  the  Col- 
lector, and  that  that  estimable  man  had  already 
referred  to  this  fruit,  as  a  refreshment  at  a  religious 
meeting,  in  terms  of  deep  contempt;  and  there 
would  not  only  be  a  magic  lantern  with  scenes  of 
war  and  sport,  to  say  nothing  of  amusement,  but 
also  a  sacred  cantata  to  be  sung  by  the  children. 
When  the  Collector  heard  of  the  programme,  he 
grasped  the  situation  at  once,  and  knew  that  in  the 
coming  battle  quarter  could  not  be  given — that  the 
"  Reds "  would  be  completely  reduced  to  subor- 
dination, or  that  a  severely  constitutional  monarchy 
would  be  finally  closed.  This  was  indeed  the 
general  opinion;  and  when  the  Juniors  appeared 
before  the  Session  to  present  their  ultimatum,  noth- 
ing but  a  sense  of  decency  prevented  the  Free  North 
attending  in  a  body,  and  Bailie  MacCallum  took  a 
gloomy  view  of  the  issue. 

"  Oranges  and  the  what-ye-call-it,"  alluding  to  the 
Cantata,  "  the  Collector  '11  never  stand,  and  ye  could- 
na  expect  him." 

Dr.  Pittendriegh  was  now  emeritus,  which  means 
that  he  had  retired  from  the  active  duty  of  the 
ministry  and  was  engaged  in  criticising  those  who 
were  still  in  the  yoke ;  and  many  pitied  young  Mr. 
Rutherford,  brother  of  Rutherford  of  Glasgow,  who 
had  to  preside  over  so  critical  a  meeting.  His 
prayer  was,  however,  favourably  received  by  both 


282  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

sides,  and  his  few  remarks  before  calling  on  the 
leader  of  the  "  Reds  "  were  full  of  tact  and  peace. 
As  for  that  intrepid  man — grocer  by  trade  and  full 
of  affability,  but  a  Radical  in  politics  and  indifferent 
to  the  past — he  discharged  a  difficult  duty ,  with 
considerable  ability.  For  himself  and  his  friends  he 
disclaimed  all  desire  to  offend  any  one,  and  least  of 
all  one  whom  every  one  respected  so  much  for  his 
services  both  to  Church  and  State — both  the  Bailie 
and  Fiscal  felt  bound  to  say  "  hear,  hear,"  and  the 
Collector  bowed  stiffly — but  they  must  put  the 
work  they  had  carried  on  in  the  Vennel  before  any 
individual;  they  were  dealing  with  a  poor  and 
neglected  class  of  children  very  different  from  the 
children  in  grand  houses — this  with  some  teethi- 
ness.  They  must  make  religion  attractive,  and 
show  that  they  were  interested  in  the  children's  lives 
as  well  as  their  souls.  None  of  them  could  see 
anything  wrong  in  a  cup  of  tea  or  a  bit  of  music ; 
and  if  the  Session  was  to  forbid  this  small 
pleasure,  he  and  his  friends  would  respectfully  re- 
sign the  position  they  had  held  for  many  years,  and 
allow  the  elders  to  carry  on  the  work  on  any  plan 
they  pleased. 

There  was  a  faint  rustle;  the  Bailie  gave  a  low 
whistle,  and  then  the  Collector  rose  from  the  table, 
where  he  sat  as  clerk,  removed  the  gold  eyeglass 
from  his  nose  with  much  deliberation,  coughed 
slightly,  and  waving  his  eyeglass  gently  with  his 
left  hand,  gave  his  deliverance.  He  acknowledged 


INCONSISTENCY  283 

with  somewhat  cold  courtesy  the  generous  expres- 
sions regarding  any  slight  services  he  had  been 
allowed  to  render  in  his  dual  capacity,  and  he 
desired  to  express  his  profound  sense  of  the  de- 
votion with  which  his  friends  on  the  other  side,  if 
he  might  just  for  the  occasion  speak  of  sides, 
carried  on  their  important  work.  His  difficulty, 
however,  was  this — and  he  feared  that  it  was 
insuperable — Christian  work  must  be  carried  on  in 
accordance  with  sound  principles,  by  the  example 
of  the  Bible  and  according  to  the  spirit  of  the 
Scots  Kirk.  He  was  convinced  that  the  enter- 
tainments in  question,  with  the  accompaniments 
to  which  he  would  not  further  allude  in  this  place, 
were  quite  contrary  to  the  sound  and  solid  tra- 
ditions which  were  very  dear  to  some  of  them,  and 
from  which  he  ventured  to  hope  the  Free  North 
Church  of  Muirtown  would  never  depart.  If  the 
Session  should  take  another  view  than  that  of  his 
humble  judgment,  then  nothing  would  remain  for 
him  but  to  resign  his  position  as  Session  Clerk 
and  Elder.  There  was  general  consternation  on 
the  faces  of  his  brethren,  and  even  the  Juniors 
looked  uncomfortable,  and  the  Moderator  did 
wisely  in  adjourning  the  meeting  for  a  week. 

The  idea  was  some  kind  of  compromise;  but  no 
one  was  particularly  hopeful,  and  the  first  essays 
were  not  very  encouraging.  It  was  laid  on  the  Bai- 
lie to  deal  with  the  leader  of  the  insurgents,  for  the 
sound  reason  that,,  as  every  class  has  its  own  free- 


284  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

masonry,  one  tradesman  was  likely  to  know  how  to 
deal  with  another.  No  man  had  a  more  plausible 
tongue,  as  was  well  known  in  municipal  circles, 
and  the  Bailie  plied  the  grocer  with  the  arguments 
of  expediency :  that  the  Collector  was  an  ornament 
to  the  Free  North;  that  any  disruption  in  their 
congregation  would  be  a  sport  to  the  Philistines; 
that  if  you  offended  the  Collector,  you  touched  the 
Fiscal  and  the  other  professional  dignitaries;  that 
it  would  be  possible  to  go  a  good  way  in  the  direc- 
tion that  the  insurgents  desired  without  attracting 
any  notice ;  and  that  the  Collector.  ..."  Well, 
ye  see,  Councillor  " — for  the  grocer  had  so  far  at- 
tained— "  there's  bound  to  be  changes ;  we  maun  be 
prepared  for  that.  He's  failin'  a  wee,  an'  there's  nae 
use  counterin'  him."  So,  with  many  shrugs  and 
suggestions,  the  astute  politician  advised  that  the 
insurgents  should  make  a  nominal  submission  and 
wait  their  time.  Then  the  Councillor  informed  the 
Bailie  that  he  would  fight  the  battle  to  the  end,  al- 
though the  Collector  should  join  the  Established 
Kirk,  and  Bailie  MacCallum  knew  that  his  labour 
had  been  all  in  vain. 

It  was  the  Fiscal  who  approached  the  Collector, 
as  was  most  meet,  and  he  considered  that  the  best 
time  was  after  dinner,  and  when  the  two  were  dis- 
cussing their  second  glass  of  port. 

"  That's  a  sound  wine,  Collector,  and  a  credit  to 
a  Muirtown  firm.  Remarkable  man,  old  Sande- 
man;  established  a  good  port  in  Scotland  and  in- 


INCONSISTENCY  285 

vented  a  new  denomination,  when  to  save  my  life 
I  couldn't  have  thought  of  another." 

"  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  I  do  not  think  that 
Sandemanianism  is  any  credit  to  Muirtown.  How 
any  Scots  Kirkman  can  sink  down  into  that  kind 
of  thing  passes  me.  But  the  wine  is  unexception- 
able, and  I  never  tasted  any  but  good  wine  at  your 
table ;  yet  I  suppose  young  men  would  prefer  claret 
— not  the  rich  claret  Scots  gentlemen  used  to  drink, 
but  that  feeble  Gladstone  stuff,"  and  the  Collector 
wagged  his  head  in  sorrow  over  the  decadent  taste 
of  the  day. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Collector,  but  you  know 
de  gustibus;  and  when  the  young  fellows  do  me  the 
honour  of  dining  with  me,  I  let  them  have  their 
claret :  there  must  be  give  and  take  between  the 
seniors  and  juniors,  eh,  Collector?" — this  with 
some  adroitness. 

"  There  I  venture  to  disagree  with  you,  Fiscal," 
and  the  Collector's  face  hardened  at  once.  "  It  is 
the  young  who  ought  to  yield  to  the  old ;  I  see  no 
reason  why  the  old  should  give  in  to  the  young ;  if 
they  do,  the  end  will  be  anarchy  in  Church  and 
State." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say,  Collec- 
tor, but  have  you  never  been  afraid  that  if  we  of 
the  old  school  refuse  to  make  any  concessions,  we 
shall  simply  lose  our  influence,  and  things  will  be 
done  foolishly,  which,  with  our  help,  might  have 
been  done  wisely  ?  " 


286  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

"  If  there  be  one  word  I  detest,  it  is  '  conces- 
sions ' ;  they  are  ruinous,  both  in  the  Civil  Service 
and  in  the  Church;  and  it  just  comes  to  this,  Fis- 
cal :  if  you  yield  an  inch,  you  must  yield  a  yard. 
Nothing  will  preserve  order  save  resistance  from 
the  beginning,  obsta  principiis,  yes,  obsta  princi- 
piis." 

The  Fiscal  recognised  the  expression  on  the  Col- 
lector's face,  and  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  con- 
tinue the  subject,  and  so  his  labour  was  also  in  vain. 

It  only  now  remained  that  the  minister  should 
try  his  hand  upon  this  inflexible  man,  and  one 
of  the  urgent  duties  of  his  pastoral  office  hindered 
him  until  the  evening  before  the  meeting.  During 
the  last  few  days  Rutherford  had  been  trying 
to  get  the  key  to  this  type  of  character,  and  had 
been  touched  by  the  Collector's  loneliness.  With- 
out wife  or  child,  engaged  in  routine  year  by  year, 
moving  in  a  narrow  set  of  officials  or  ecclesiastics, 
he  had  withered  and  contracted  till  he  had  be- 
come a  mere  pedant.  People  spoke  of  his  narrow- 
ness and  obstinacy.  They  were  angry  with  him, 
and  would  not  be  sorry  to  teach  him  a  lesson.  The 
minister's  heart  was  full  of  pity  and  charity;  and, 
so  optimistic  is  youth,  he  believed  that  there  must 
be  springs  of  emotion  and  romance  in  the  old  man ; 
but  this  faith  he  did  not  mention  to  the  Bailie  or 
the  Fiscal,  considering,  with  some  reason,  that  they 
would  put  it  down  as  a  foolish  dream,  and  be  in- 
wardly much  amused.  As  he  stood  before  the  Col- 


INCONSISTENCY  287 

lector's  residence,  as  it  was  called  in  the  Muirtown 
Advertiser,  his  pity  deepened,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
confirmed  in  his  compassion.  The  Collector  did  not 
live  in  rooms  or  in  a  small  house  as  did  other  bach- 
elors, for  this  would  be  unworthy  of  his  position, 
and  a  reflection  on  the  State;  but  he  must  needs 
live  in  a  house  on  the  North  Meadow.  The  large 
drawing-room  lay  unused  and  empty,  since  no  ladies 
camt  to  the  house ;  and  of  the  bedrooms  only  three 
were  furnished :  one  for  his  servants,  one  for  him- 
self, and  another  a  guest-room,  which  was  never 
occupied  save  by  some  Government  official  from 
London  on  inspection,  or  a  minister  attending  the 
Presbytery.  The  Collector  was  eager  to  secure 
Rabbi  Saunderson,  but  that  learned  man,  of  absent 
mind,  was  apt  to  forget  that  he  had  been  invited. 
The  dining-room  was  a  bare,  sombre  room,  where 
the  Collector  took  his  meals  in  solitary  state  and 
entertained  half  a  dozen  men  to  simple  but  well- 
cooked  dinners,  after  which  the  table-cloth  was 
removed  from  the  polished  dark  mahogany,  and  the 
sound  old  port  coasted  round  in  silver  slides.  As 
the  minister  entered  the  dimly  lit  lobby  everything 
seemed  to  him  significant  and  eloquent :  the  middle- 
aged  housekeeper  with  her  air  of  severe  propriety; 
the  hat-stand,  with  no  careless,  unkempt  exuber- 
ance of  undress  hats,  shooting  caps,  country  sticks, 
but  with  two  silk  hats  only,  one  for  good  weather 
and  Sundays,  one  for  bad  and  funerals;  a  bamboo 
cane,  with  an  ivory  and  silver  head  of  straight 


288  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

and  unadorned  pattern;  and  two  coats,  one  for 
cold,  one  for  milder  temperature.  His  sitting- 
room,  where  he  spent  his  unofficial  time,  seemed 
to  the  minister  that  evening  the  very  embodiment 
of  the  man — a  physical  shape,  as  it  were,  revealing 
his  character.  There  was  no  comfortable  disorder 
of  papers,  books,  pipes,  which  sets  one  at  ease 
in  some  rooms.  Everything  had  its  place;  and 
the  daily  paper,  after  having  been  read,  was  sent 
down  to  the  kitchen,  unless  there  was  some 
news  of  an  unedifying  description,  in  which  case 
it  was  burned.  Instead  of  a  couch  whereon  one 
could  lie  and  meditate  after  dinner  on  the  problems 
of  existence,  there  were  two  straight-backed  arm- 
chairs, one  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace.  The 
bookcase  had  glass  doors,  and  one  could  read 
the  titles  on  one  shelf :  The  Incidence  of  the  Income 
Tax,  The  Abolition  of  the  Malt  Duty,  Rules  for 
the  Collectors  of  H.M.  Inland  Revenue,  Practice 
of  the  Free  Church  of  Scotland,  Abstract  of  the 
Acts  of  Assembly,  1700  to  1840,  and  The  Elder's 
Manual.  The  Collector  was  reading  another  book 
of  the  same  genial  and  exhilarating  class,  and  the 
minister  noticed  its  contents  with  some  dismay, 
The  Authority  of  Kirk  Sessions;  but  the  Collector 
was  quite  cordial  (for  him). 

"  I  am  much  pleased  to  see  you,  Mr.  Rutherford, 
and  should  be  gratified  if  your  onerous  duties 
allowed  you  to  call  more  frequently;  but  I  never 
forget  that  while  our  hours  in  the  service  of  the 


Queen  are,  as  a  rule,  fixed,  yours,  in  a  higher  ser- 
vice, have  no  limit.  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  sit  there ; 
that  is  in  the  draught  between  the  door  and  the  fire : 
here,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  opposite  me.  Well, 
sir,  how  is  your  work  prospering?" 

The  minister  explained  that  he  had  intended  to 
call  sooner,  but  had  been  occupied  with  various 
cases  of  sickness,  one  of  which  had  touched  him 
closely.  The  people  were  not  in  the  Collector's 
district;  but  perhaps  he  might  have  noticed  them: 
they  sat  before  him  in  church. 

"  Do  you  refer  to  a  couple  who  have  come  quite 
recently,  within  a  year,  and  who,  as  I  judge,  are 
newly  married?  They  are  interesting  young  peo- 
ple, it  seemed  to  me,  and  most  attentive,  as  I  can 
testify,  to  their  religious  duties." 

"  Yes,  the  same.  They  were  engaged  for  many 
years — a  love  affair  of  childhood,  and  they  have 
been  married  less  than  eight  months.  They  have 
a  beautiful  little  home  at  Craigie,  and  they  simply 
lived  one  for  another." 

"  I  can  believe  that,  Mr.  Rutherford ;  for  I  may 
mention  that  on  one  occasion,  when  you  touched 
on  love  in  appropriate  and  .  .  .  somewhat 
moving  terms,  I  happened  to  notice,  without  espion- 
age I  trust,  that  the  wife  slipped  her  hand  into  her 
husband's,  and  so  they  sat  until  the  close  of  the 
sermon.  Has  trouble  come  to  them  ?  "  and  the  Col- 
lector looked  anxiously  at  the  minister  over  his 
spectacles. 


290  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

"  Very  dangerous  and  sudden  trouble,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.  Last  Monday  Mrs.  Fortune  was  prema- 
turely confined,  and  I  ...  don't  understand 
about  these  things;  but  the  doctor  considered  it  a 
very  bad  case." 

"  There  had  been  complications,  I  fear ;  that 
sometimes  happens,  and,  I  don't  know  why,  often 
with  those  whose  lives  are  most  precious.  How 
is  she?  I  earnestly  hope  that  she  .  .  .  that 
he  has  not  lost  his  bride."  And  Rutherford  was 
struck  by  the  anxiety  and  sadness  in  the  Collector's 
voice. 

"  It  was  feared  he  might,  and  I  have  never  seen 
any  man  so  utterly  broken  down;  and  yet  he  kept 
calm  for  her  sake.  On  Wednesday  I  stayed  with 
him  all  the  afternoon,  and  then  I  returned  for  the 
night  after  the  prayer  meeting." 

"  You  were  never  more  needed,  be  sure  of  that, 
sir;  and  is  there  hope  of  her  recovery?  I  pray 
God,  if  it  be  His  will,  that  the  young  wife  be  spared. 
Sitting  before  me  has  given  me  ...  an  inter- 
est in  the  case."  The  Collector  felt  as  if  he  must 
apologise  for  his  unusual  emotion. 

"  Their  own  doctor  took  a  gloomy  view,  but  they 
called  in  Dr.  Manley.  If  there's  real  danger  of 
death  in  Muirtown,  or  a  radius  of  twenty  miles, 
people  must  have  Manley.  And  when  he  came  into 
the  parlour — you  know  his  brusque,  decided  way 
— Manley  turned  to  poor  Fortune,  who  couldn't  say 
one  word,  only  look." 


INCONSISTENCY  291 

"  It  is,  Mr.  Rutherford,  I  will  dare  to  say,  the 
bitterest  hour  in  all  human  sorrow  " — the  Collector 
spoke  with  strong  feeling — "  and  Dr.  Manley 
said?" 

'  You  thought  you  were  going  to  lose  your 
wife.  No  wonder;  very  bad  case;  but  you're  not, 
please  God  you're  not.  Dr.  Gellatly  knows  his 
business.  Mrs.  Fortune  will  get  better  with  care, 
mark  me,  immense  care.'  That's  his  way,  you 
know,  Collector;  then  Fortune  .  .  .  well,  lost 
command  of  himself.  So  Manley  went  on, — '  with 
care  and  skill ;  and  Gellatly  will  see  to  that.' " 

"  God  be  praised ! "  exclaimed  the  Collector. 
"  How  many  Dr.  Manley  has  comforted  in  Muir- 
town !  yet  all  medical  skill  is  of  no  avail  sometimes. 
But  you  have  said  nothing  of  the  child." 

"  Manley  was  very  doubtful  about  it — a  girl, 
I  think — and  that  is  the  only  danger  now  with 
Mrs.  Fortune.  She  is  always  asking  for  the  child, 
which  she  has  not  seen;  and  so  long  as  the  news 
are  good  she  is  satisfied;  but  if  the  baby  dies,  it 
will  go  hard  with  the  mother.  Collector,"  cried 
Rutherford  suddenly,  "  what  mothers  suffer,  and 
how  they  love !  " 

The  Collector  took  off  his  spectacles  and  ex- 
amined them  carefully,  and  then  he  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  When  can  the  doctors  be  certain  about  the 
child,  Mr.  Rutherford?" 

"  Dr.  Manley  is  going  again  this  evening,  and 
we  hope  he  will  be  able  to  give  a  good  report.  I 


intended  to  call  after  seeing  you ;  for  if  all  be  well, 
we  would  return  thanks  to  God;  and  if  .  .  . 
the  child  is  not  to  live,  there  will  be  the  more  need 
of  prayer.  You  will  excuse  me,  Collector?  " 

"Go  at  once,  sir,  and  ...  do  you  mind  me 
going  with  you — just  to  the  door,  you  know?  I 
would  sleep  better  to-night  if  I  knew  mother  and 
child  were  safe."  And  the  Collector  was  already 
moving  to  the  door  as  one  in  haste. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,  Collector,  and  Fortune 
will  value  your  sympathy;  but  there  is  something 
I  called  to  talk  about,  and  in  my  concern  about 
Mrs.  Fortune  I  ...  quite  forgot  it.  It's 
about  that  unfortunate  Sabbath-school  entertain- 
ment." 

"  It's  of  no  importance  beside  this  trial — none 
whatever.  Let  us  not  delay,  and  I'll  hear  you  on 
the  other  matter  as  we  cross  the  South  Meadow." 
So  Rutherford  was  hustled  out  of  the  house  in 
growing  amazement. 

"  Let  me  say,  first  of  all,  Collector,  that  we  are 
all  much  concerned  .  .  ." 

"  Who  could  be  otherwise,  my  good  sir,  if  he 
had  a  heart  in  his  bosom — only  eight  months  mar- 
ried, and  in  danger  of  being  separated.  Mother 
and  child  taken,  and  the  husband  .  .  .  left 
desolate  .  .  .  desolate  for  life ! " 

"  If  you  could  see  your  way,"  resumed  Ruther- 
ford, after  a  respectful  pause,  and  still  harking  back 
to  the  dispute,  "  to  do  anything  .  .  ." 


INCONSISTENCY  293 

"  Why  did  you  not  say  that  before  ?  Only  tell 
me ;  and  if  it  be  in  my  power,  it  shall  be  done. 
May  I  undertake  the  doctor's  fees,  or  arrange  with 
the  nurse — through  you  of  course,  and  in  any  way 
that  will  be  in  keeping  with  their  feelings?  Com- 
mand me ;  I  shall  count  it  more  than  a  privilege — a 
duty  of  pity  and  .  .  .  love." 

"  It  was  not  the  Fortunes  I  was  thinking  of," 
said  Rutherford ;  "  but  that  can  be  left  over.  It 
is  kind  of  you  to  offer  help,  they  are  not,  however, 
in  need  of  pecuniary  assistance.  Fortune  has  a 
good  post  in  the  railway.  He's  a  first-rate  engineer 

and  a  rising  man.     But  if  you  cared  to  send  flowers 
» 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  hint,  and  I'll  attend 
to  this  to-morrow  morning."  (The  invalid  had  a 
fresh  bouquet  every  day  for  a  month.)  "  No,  I 
will  not  go  in.  Just  present  my  compliments  and 
sympathy  to  Mr.  Fortune.  Here  is  my  card,  and 
.  .  .  I'll  just  wait  for  the  bulletin,  if  you  would 
be  so  good  as  to  come  with  it  to  the  door." 

"  Baby's  going  to  live  too,  and  Manley  says  she 
will  be  a  thumping  big  child  in  a  few  months !  " 

"Thank  God,  Mr.  Rutherford!  You  cannot 
imagine  how  this  incident  has  affected  me.  I'll 
go  home  now,  and  as  I  cross  through  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Meadow  my  humble  thanksgiving  will 
mingle  with  yours,  that  in  this  home  it  has  been 
God's  pleasure  to  turn  the  darkness  .  .  .  into 
light."  The  voice  of  the  Collector  was  charged 


294  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

with  emotion,  and  Rutherford  was  confirmed  in 
his  romantic  belief,  although  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
laboured  in  vain  in  the  affair  of  the  Sabbath  school. 

It  was  known  before  the  meeting  of  that  even- 
ing that  no  compromise  had  been  effected ;  and 
when  the  Collector  rose  to  speak,  his  face  and  man- 
ner charged  with  solemnity,  it  was  felt  that  a  crisis 
in  the  Free  North  had  arrived.  He  began  by  say- 
ing that  the  subject  of  last  meeting  had  never  been 
long  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  that  he  had  now  ar- 
rived at  a  decision  which  commended  itself  to  his 
judgment,  and  which  he  would  submit  with  all 
brevity. 

"  Moderator  " — for  the  Collector's  historical  ut- 
terance must  be  given  in  his  own  words — "  if  a 
man  lives  alone  for  many  years,  through  the  provi- 
dence of  God,  and  has  come  almost  to  the  limit  of 
ordinary  human  life  as  set  down  by  the  Psalmist, 
he  is  apt  to  become  censorious  and  to  be  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  young  people ;  and  if  I  have  erred  in  this 
respect,  you  will  kindly  assign  it  to  the  habits  of 
my  life,  not  to  the  feelings  of  my  heart." 

There  was  so  much  gracious  tenderness  and 
unaffected  humility  in  the  Collector's  tone  that  the 
grocer — unless  roused,  himself  the  most  generous 
of  men — wished  to  rise  and  withdraw  the  oranges 
instantly,  and  to  leave  the  other  details  of  tea  and 
cantata  absolutely  to  the  Collector's  decision,  but 
was  checked  by  the  Moderator. 

"  So  far,  therefore,  as  I  am  concerned,  I  beg, 


INCONSISTENCY  295 

Moderator,  to  withdraw  all  opposition  to  the  pro- 
gramme of  my  excellent  friends,  and  I  do  so  with 
all  my  heart;  but,  with  your  permission,  I  must 
annex  one  condition,  which  I  hope  my  good  friends 
will  see  their  way  to  grant." 

"  Whatever  the  Collector  wants  shall  be  done !  " 
burst  in  the  Councillor,  with  chorus  of  applause 
from  his  side. 

"  Mr.  Councillor  must  not  be  too  rash  lest  he 
be  caught  in  a  snare,"  resumed  the  Collector 
facetiously,  "  for  I  am  contemplating  an  innovation. 
However  agreeable  an  evening  entertainment  in 
winter  may  be  to  the  Vennel  children,  it  appears  to 
me  that  it  would  be  even  better  for  them  to  go  to 
the  country  and  admire  the  works  of  the  Creator. 
There  is  a  beautiful  spot,  only  some  twelve  miles 
from  here,  which  few  Muirtown  people  have  seen. 
I  refer  to  the  Tochty  woods,  where  are  the  graves 
of  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,  and  my  condition 
is  that  in  the  height  of  summer  our  poor  Muirtown 
children  be  driven  there  and  spend  a  long  summer's 
day  on  the  grass  and  by  the  river.  I  have  only 
to  add  that  if  this  proposal  should  meet  with  my 
friends'  and  my  colleagues'  approval,  I  shall  count 
it  a  privilege  and,  er  .  .  .  honour  to  defray 
the  cost."  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  public  life 
the  Collector  sat  down  covered  with  confusion  as 
with  a  garment. 

The  Tochty  excursion  came  off  on  midsummer 
day,  and  is  now  a  chapter  of  ancient  history,  to 


296  THE  COLLECTOR'S 

which  what  remains  of  the  "  old  Guard "  turn 
back  with  fond  recollection;  for  though  the  things 
reported  were  almost  incredible  in  Muirtown,  yet 
were  they  all  less  than  true.  How  there  had  been 
preparation  in  the  unsavoury  homes  of  the  Vennel 
for  weeks  before,  with  the  result  that  the  children 
appeared  in  such  spotless  cleanliness  and  varied 
gaiety  of  attire  that  the  Councillor  was  filled  with 
pride,  and  the  Collector  declared  that  they  looked 
like  ladies  and  gentlemen.  How  the  Collector 
was  himself  dressed  in  a  light-grey  summer  suit, 
with  a  blue  tie  and  a  soft  hat — this  was  never  be- 
lieved in  his  "  Collection,"  but  could  any  one  have 
invented  it? — and  received  many  compliments 
on  his  appearance  from  all  sides.  How  he  had 
provided  a  barouche  from  the  Kilspindie  Arms 
for  the  Councillor  and  his  wife,  as  chiefs  of  the 
school,  and  for  his  guests  the  Fortunes,  whose 
baby  crowed  triumphantly  half  the  way,  and  smiled 
in  her  sleep  the  other  half;  but  the  Collector  trav- 
elled on  the  box-seat  of  the  first  break  with  the 
children — I  tremble  while  I  write — through  the 
main  streets  of  Muirtown.  How  the  Collector  had 
arranged  with  Burnbrae,  the  Free  Kirk  elder  of 
Drumtochty,  to  supply  every  one  on  arrival  with  a 
pint  of  sweet,  fresh  milk;  and  how  a  quarrel  arose 
in  the  end  of  the  days  between  the  town  and 
country  elders  because  Burnbrae  gave  the  bairns  a 
pint  and  a  half  at  the  price  of  a  pint,  and  was  never 
brought  to  a  state  of  repentance.  How  almost 


INCONSISTENCY  297 

every  game  known  to  children  in  ancient  and  mod- 
ern times  was  played  that  day  in  Tochty  woods, 
and  the  Collector  patronised  them  all,  from  "  tig  "  to 
"  jingo-ring,"  with  great  access  of  popularity,  if  not 
conspicuous  proficiency.  How  they  all  gathered  to- 
gether in  front  of  the  Lodge  before  leaving,  and  the 
Councillor — he  has  since  risen  to  be  Lord  Provost — 
made  the  great  speech  of  his  life  in  proposing  a 
vote  of  thanks  to  the  Collector;  and  the  Collector, 
to  save  himself  from  breaking  down,  called  for  three 
cheers  in  honour  of  the  Councillor,  and  led  them 
himself.  And  how  they  drove  back  past  Kilbogie 
in  the  pleasant  evening-time,  and  at  the  dispersing 
half  the  children  of  the  Vennel  shook  hands  with 
H.M.  Collector  of  Inland  Revenue  for  Muirtown. 

The  Collector  returned  home,  his  heart  full  of 
peace,  and  went  to  a  certain  closet  of  his  bedroom, 
wherein  was  a  box  he  had  not  opened  for  forty 
years.  Within  it  lay  a  bridal  dress,  and  an  un- 
finished set  of  baby  clothes,  with  a  needle  still  fas- 
tened in  the  hem  of  a  garment.  And  the  Col- 
lector wept ;  but  his  tears  were  half  sorrow  and  half 
joy,  and  he  did  not  sorrow  as  one  who  had  no  hope. 


FATHER  JINKS 


When  I  give  him  this  title,  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  his  right  to  it  was  at  the  best  very  doubtful, 
and  that  the  Romans  at  St.  Francis  Xavier's 
laughed  openly  at  his  conceit;  but  he  was  always 
greatly  encouraged  by  any  one  calling  him 
"  Father " ;  and  now  that  he  is  gone  I,  for  one, 
who  knew  both  his  little  eccentricities  and  his 
hard  sacrifices,  will  not  throw  stones  at  his  grave — 
plenty  were  thrown  at  himself  in  his  lifetime — 
nor  shall  I  wound  his  memory  by  calling  him  Mr. 
Jinks.  My  opinion,  as  a  layman,  unattached  and 
perhaps  not  even  intelligent,  is  of  very  small 
account,  but  it  is  that  of  many  other  laymen;  and 
to  us  it  is  of  no  importance  what  the  servant  of 
the  Master  is  called,  whether,  like  my  dear  old 
friend  Father  Pat  Reilly,  who  has  brought  back 
more  prodigals  from  the  far  country  and  rescued 
more  waifs  from  the  streets  than  any  man  I  can 
hear  of,  or  after  the  fashion  of  that  worthy  man, 
Pastor  John  Jump,  as  he  delights  to  describe  him- 
self, who  attends  to  business  all  the  week — some- 

301 


FATHER  JINKS 


When  I  give  him  this  title,  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  his  right  to  it  was  at  the  best  very  doubtful, 
and  that  the  Romans  at  St.  Francis  Xavier's 
laughed  openly  at  his  conceit;  but  he  was  always 
greatly  encouraged  by  any  one  calling  him 
"  Father " ;  and  now  that  he  is  gone  I,  for  one, 
who  knew  both  his  little  eccentricities  and  his 
hard  sacrifices,  will  not  throw  stones  at  his  grave — 
plenty  were  thrown  at  himself  in  his  lifetime — 
nor  shall  I  wound  his  memory  by  calling  him  Mr. 
Jinks.  My  opinion,  as  a  layman,  unattached  and 
perhaps  not  even  intelligent,  is  of  very  small 
account,  but  it  is  that  of  many  other  laymen;  and 
to  us  it  is  of  no  importance  what  the  servant  of 
the  Master  is  called,  whether,  like  my  dear  old 
friend  Father  Pat  Reilly,  who  has  brought  back 
more  prodigals  from  the  far  country  and  rescued 
more  wraifs  from  the  streets  than  any  man  I  can 
hear  of,  or  after  the  fashion  of  that  worthy  man, 
Pastor  John  Jump,  as  he  delights  to  describe  him- 
self, who  attends  to  business  all  the  week — some- 

301 


302  FATHER  JINKS 

thing  in  tinned  meats,  I  think — and  on  Sunday 
preaches  to  a  congregation  of  "  baptized  believers  " 
with  much  force  and  earnestness,  also  without 
money  or  price.  Both  the  Father  and  the  Pastor 
had  some  doubts  about  my  salvation — the  one  be- 
cause I  was  not  a  member  of  the  Anglican  Com- 
munion, and  the  other  because  I  was  not  a  "  strait 
Baptist " ;  but  I  never  had  any  doubt  about  theirs 
— much  less  indeed  than  they  had  of  one  another's 
— and  of  the  two  I  liked  .  .  .  but  no,  there  is 
no  use  of  comparisons,  especially  as  the  Pastor,  as 
well  as  the  Father,  has  gone  to  the  land  where, 
doubtless,  many  surprises  are  waiting  for  us  all. 

Nor  does  it  seem  of  grave  concern  to  some  of 
us — but  here  again  we  may  only  be  displaying 
our  own  ignorance  of  ecclesiastical  subtleties — 
how  a  minister  of  religion  is  set  apart  to  his  office, 
if  so  be  that  he  is  an  educated  man  and  does 
the  work  put  to  his  hand  faithfully.  Jinks  was 
priested — I  think  that  was  what  he  called  it,  but 
he  is  not  responsible  for  my  mistakes — in  a  cathe- 
dral by  a  Right  Rev.  Father  in  God,  and  he  used 
often  to  insist  that  only  through  such  a  channel 
could  the  grace  of  Orders  come;  but  when  the 
successor  of  the  apostles  advised  Jinks  in  a  most 
kindly,  fatherly  spirit  to  cease  from  some  of  his 
amiable  extravagances — he  had  added  a  bran-new 
chasuble  to  his  other  bravery,  which  greatly 
pleased  his  female  devotees — "  the  dear  Father  do 
look  so  pretty  in  his  new  chalice,"  one  of  his  ad- 


FATHER  JINKS  303 

mirers  said — Jinks  repaid  the  Episcopal  counsel 
with  thinly-veiled  scorn,  and  preached  a  sermon 
which  ran  to  the  unwonted  length  of  twenty  min- 
utes to  show  that  the  bishop  was  himself  a  law- 
breaker and  little  better  than  a  Protestant. 

My  friend  Carmichael,  again,  was  ordained  in 
the  little  Free  Kirk  of  Drumtochty  by  the  Presby- 
tery of  Muirtown, — that  heavy  body  of  Church 
Law  and  Divinity,  Dr.  Dowbiggin,  being  Moder- 
ator— and  I  cannot  recollect  Carmichael  once  re- 
ferring to  his  Orders  but  he  regarded  his  spiritual 
superiors  with  profound  respect,  and  was  very 
much  relieved  when  his  heresy  case  was  dismissed 
— knowing  very  well  that  if  they  took  it  into  their 
heads  he  would  be  turned  out  of  his  Church  with- 
out delay  and  deposed  from  the  ministry  beyond 
human  remedy.  Carmichael  was  in  the  custom 
of  denouncing  priestcraft,  and  explaining  that  he 
had  no  claim  to  be  a  priest;  but  he  adminis- 
tered a  ghostly  discipline  so  minute  and  elabo- 
rate, with  sins  which  could  be  loosed  by  him,  and 
reserved  sins  which  could  only  be  loosed  by  a 
higher  authority,  that  the  Father  would  have  re- 
garded it  with  envy.  And  Carmichael  exercised 
an  unquestioned  authority  among  the  hard-headed 
and  strong-willed  people  of  Drumtochty  which 
Jinks  would  have  cheerfully  given  ten  years  of 
his  life  to  possess  in  the  parish  of  St.  Agatha's. 
Between  the  two  there  was  this  difference,  that 
the  vicar  of  St.  Agatha's  had  the  form  of  authority 


304  FATHER  JINKS 

without-  the  power,  and  the  minister  of  Drum- 
tochty  had  the  power  of  authority  without  the 
form;  and,  as  no  man  could  be  personally  more 
humble  or  in  heart  more  sincere  than  Jinks,  this 
was  the  weary  pity  of  the  situation  for  my  little 
Father. 

Had  St.  Agatha's  been  in  the  West  End,  where 
his  ritualism  would  have  been  accepted  with  grace- 
ful enthusiasm  because  it  was  fashionable — which 
would,  however,  have  caused  him  much  searching 
of  heart :  or  in  the  East  End,  where  it  would  have 
been  condoned  with  a  wink  on  account  of  his  alms- 
giving, which  would  have  wounded  him  deeply 
—Father  Jinks  had  not  been  a  subject  of  mockery 
and  reproach.  As  it  was  Providence  had  dealt 
severely  with  the  good  man  in  sending  him 
to  the  obdurate  and  stiff-necked  parish  of  St. 
Agatha's,  where  the  people  were  anything  but 
open  soil  for  his  teaching.  The  houses  ranged 
from  twenty  pounds  of  rent  up  to  forty,  and  were 
inhabited  by  foremen  artisans,  clerks,  shopkeepers, 
single  women  letting  lodgings,  and  a  few  people 
retired  on  a  modest  competence.  The  district 
had  not  one  rich  man,  although  it  was  wonderful 
what  some  of  the  shopkeepers  gave  to  special 
efforts  at  their  chapels,  nor  any  person  in  the 
remotest  contact  with  society,  but  neither  were 
there  any  evil  livers  or  wastrels.  Every  one  worked 
hard,  lived  frugally — with  a  special  Sunday  dinner 
— paid  his  taxes  promptly,  as  well  as  his  other  debts, 


FATHER  JINKS  305 

and  lived  on  fairly  good  terms  with  his  neighbours. 
The  parish  had  certainly  no  enthusiasms,  and  would 
not  have  known  what  an  ideal  was,  but  it  had  a 
considerable  stock  of  common  sense,  and  most  peo- 
ple possessed  a  traditional  creed  which  they  were 
prepared  to  defend  with  much  obstinacy.  St. 
Agatha's  parish  was  a  very  home  of  Philistinism, 
and,  as  everybody  knows,  the  Philistines  have  al- 
ways had  an  instinctive  dislike  to  Catholic  usages 
and  teachings. 


3o6  FATHER  JINKS 


II 


The  congregation  of  St.  Agatha's  were  a  preju- 
diced people,  and  had  long  been  established  in  their 
own  ways.  The  previous  vicar,  who  had  a  certain 
fame  as  an  orator  of  the  florid  order  and  rose  to  be 
an  honorary  canon,  was  a  churchman  of  the  lowest 
depths,  and  did  things  which  Father  Jinks  used  to 
mention  with  a  shudder.  He  preached  in  a  black 
gown,  and  delighted  to  address  religious  meetings 
in  unlicensed  places  without  any  gown  at  all;  he 
administered  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper 
once  a  month,  and  preferred  to  do  so  at  evening 
service;  he  delighted  to  offer  an  extempore  prayer 
before  sermon,  and  never  concluded  a  discourse 
without  witnessing  against  the  errors  of  the  Church 
of  Rome ;  he  delighted  in  a  three-decker  pulpit,  and 
would  occasionally,  in  visiting  the  church  for  a 
baptism,  leave  his  hat  on  the  communion  table 
where  there  was  no  other  ornament.  In  his  early 
days  the  music  was  led  by  a  barrel  organ,  which 
was  turned  by  the  clerk,  and  later,  when  a  large 
harmonium  was  introduced,  the  Psalms  were  read 
— the  clerk  leading  the  congregation  with  a  sten- 
torian voice — and  Moody  and  Sankey's  hymns  were 


FATHER  JINKS  307 

freely  used.  It  was  understood  that  the  Canon  had 
received  a  sudden  call  to  the  ministry  while  engaged 
in  commercial  pursuits,  and  had  not  found  time  for 
a  University  education — the  hood  which  he  wore 
at  marriages  was  an  invention  of  his  wife's — and  he 
was  therefore  very  careful  to  correct  the  inaccura- 
cies of  the  accepted  versions,  saying,  with  much  im- 
pressiveness,  "  In  the  original  Hebrew  of  this  Gos- 
pel," or,  "  The  Greek  of  Isaiah  has  it,"  although,  in 
order  to  prevent  monotony,  he  would  next  Sunday 
reverse  the  order  of  languages  and  again  conform 
to  traditional  belief.  Critical  persons,  connected  by 
blood  with  the  families  of  St.  Agatha's  and  attend- 
ing services  there  on  occasion,  declared  openly  that 
the  Canon  was  a  preposterous  personage  and  a 
wind-bag;  but  he  had  without  doubt  a  certain  vein 
of  genuine  piety,  which  un  sympathising  people 
were  apt  to  call  unctuous,  but  which  was,  at  any 
rate,  warm ;  and  a  turn  for  rhetoric — he  was  of  Irish 
birth — which  might  not  be  heavily  charged  with 
thought,  but  was  very  appetizing  to  the  somewhat 
heavy  minds  of  St.  Agatha's  parish.  While  he  did 
not  allow  excessive  charity  to  interfere  with  com- 
fortable living,  and  while  he  did  not  consider  it 
his  duty  to  risk  a  valuable  life  by  reckless  visitation 
of  persons  with  contagious  diseases,  the  Canon,  by 
his  popular  religious  manner — his  funeral  addresses 
which  he  delivered  at  the  grave,  wearing  a  tall 
hat  and  swaying  an  umbrella,  moved  all  to  open 
grief, — and  by  his  sermons, — an  hour  long  and  rich 


FATHER  JINKS 

in  anecdotes — held  the  parish  in  his  hand  and  kept 
St.  Agatha's  full.  People  still  speak  of  a  course 
of  lectures  on  "  The  Antichrist  of  the  Bible,"  in 
which  Rome  was  compared  to  Egypt,  Samaria, 
Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  the  strangers  sat  in  the 
aisles;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Canon 
convinced  the  parish  that  a  High  Churchman  was 
a  Jesuit  in  disguise,  and  that  a  priest  was  (prob- 
ably) an  immoral  person.  So  far  as  I  could  gather, 
the  worthy  man  believed  everything  he  said — al- 
though his  way  of  saying  it  might  savour  of  cant 
— and  he  was  greatly  impressed  by  an  anonymous 
letter  threatening  his  life  and  telling  him  that  the 
eye  of  Rome  was  on  him.  He  had  been  guided  to 
marry  three  times — possibly  as  a  protest  against 
celibacy — with  cumulative  financial  results  of  a  fair- 
ly successful  character,  and  his  last  wife  mourns  her 
loss  at  Cheltenham,  where  she  subscribes  freely  to 
"  escaped  nuns,"  and  greedily  anticipates  the  field 
of  Armageddon. 

When  the  new  patron,  who  had  bought  his  posi- 
tion for  missionary  purposes,  appointed  the  Rev. 
John  James  Jinks  to  be  vicar  of  St.  Agatha's,  there 
was  a  rebellion  in  the  parish,  which,  of  course,  came 
to  nothing,  and  an  appeal  to  the  Bishop,  which 
called  forth  a  letter  exhorting  every  person  to  peace 
and  charity.  Various  charges  were  made  against 
the  new  vicar,  ranging  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  curate  in  a  church  where  the  confessional  was 
in  full  swing,  and  that  the  morals  of  the  matrons  of 


FATHER  JINKS  309 

St.  Agatha's  would  be  in  danger,  to  the  wicked 
calumny  that  he  was  an  ex-Primitive  Methodist,  and 
was  therefore,  as  is  natural  in  such  circumstances, 
very  strong  on  the  doctrine  of  apostolical  succession. 
As  the  last  insinuation  cut  Jinks  to  the  quick,  and 
was,  indeed,  almost  the  only  attack  he  really  felt, 
it  is  due  to  his  memory  to  state  that  he  was  the 
son  (and  only  child)  of  a  country  rector,  whose 
living  was  worth  £129,  and  who  brought  up  his 
lad  in  the  respectable,  if  somewhat  arid,  principles 
of  the  historical  High  Church  school,  which  in 
the  son  blossomed  rapidly  into  the  luxuriance  of 
Ritualism.  It  was  only  by  the  severest  economy 
at  the  Rectory  that  Jinks  could  be  sent  to  one 
of  the  cheaper  Halls  at  Oxford,  and  it  was  the 
lasting  sorrow  of  his  blameless  life  that  the  Rector 
and  his  wife  both  died  before  he  secured  his  modest 
pass  degree.  His  mother  used  to  call  him  John 
James,  and  had  dreams  that  he  would  be  raised 
to  the  Episcopate  long  after  she  had  been  laid  to 
rest;  but  he  knew  very  well  from  the  beginning 
that  his  intellectual  gifts  were  limited,  and  that  his 
career  would  not  be  distinguished.  While  he  mag- 
nified his  priestly  office  beyond  bounds,  and  was 
as  bold  as  a  lion  for  the  Church  in  all  her  rights 
and  privileges,  he  had  no  ambition  for  himself  and 
was  the  most  modest  of  men.  Because  he  was  only 
five  feet  four  in  height,  and  measured  thirty-two 
inches  round  the  chest,  and  had  a  pink  and  white 
boyish  face,  and  divided  his  hair  down  the  middle, 


3io  FATHER  JINKS 

and  blushed  when  he  was  spoken  to  by  women 
and  dons,  and  stammered  slightly  in  any  excite- 
ment, they  called  him  Jinksy  at  Tommy's  Hall,  and 
he  answered  cheerfully;  and  when  our  big  Scots 
doctor  availed  himself  on  occasion  of  the  same  fa- 
miliar form  of  address  he  showed  no  resentment. 
No  one,  however,  could  say,  when  he  was  with  us 
in  St.  Agatha's,  that  he  forgot  his  position,  not 
only  as  a  priest  with  power  to  bind  and  loose,  but 
also  as  the  disciple  of  his  Lord ;  for  if  any  clergy- 
man ever  did,  our  little  Father  adorned  the  doctrine 
of  Christ  by  his  meekness  and  lowliness  of  char- 
acter, and  by  a  self-sacrifice  and  self-forgetfulness 
which  knew  no  limits.  He  wore  a  low-crowned, 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and  in  winter  a  garment  resem- 
bling a  Highland  cloak,  which  gave  him  as  he  im- 
agined a  certain  resemblance  to  a  continental  abbe ; 
and  as  he  skimmed  at  all  hours  along  our  sombre, 
monotonous  streets  on  errands  which  were  often 
very  poorly  requited,  and  in  many  cases  may  have 
been  quite  uncalled  for,  he  was,  if  you  pleased  to 
see  him  from  a  certain  angle,  a  rather  absurd  figure ; 
but  as  his  simple,  boyish  face  grew  thinner  and 
paler  every  month,  and  his  eyes  grew  brighter  and 
more  spiritual,  one's  smile  rather  passed  into  the 
tears  of  the  heart.  And  now  that  he  is  gone,  and 
no  one  in  St.  Agatha's  is  vexed  either  by  his  chas- 
uble or  his  kindness,  it  comes  to  us  that  Father 
Jinks  followed  the  light  given  to  him  without  flinch- 
ing, and  has  rendered  in  a  good  account. 


FATHER  JINKS  311 


III 


When  Father  Jinks  read  himself  into  St.  Aga- 
tha's, the  church  seemed  to  him  little  better  than 
a  conventicle,  a  mere  preaching-house,  and  it  was 
his  business  to  change  it  into  a  place  fit  for  Catho- 
lic worship.  His  success  in  this  direction  was 
marvellous.  Before  his  death  there  was  a  chancel 
with  screen  and  choir  stalls,  a  side  pulpit  of 
carved  stone  with  scenes  from  the  Gospels  there- 
on, a  reredos,  and  an  altar  with  cross  and  candle- 
sticks, besides  other  pieces  of  ecclesiastical  furni- 
ture of  lesser  importance  and  beyond  the  lay 
intelligence.  There  was  also  an  organ,  for  which 
so  many  pews  were  removed,  and  a  font  near  the 
door,  for  which  other  pews  were  removed,  and  an 
east  window,  containing  the  life  and  death  of  our 
patron  saint,  about  whom  nobody  knew  anything 
before,  and  for  which  a  magnificent  geometrical 
design  in  red  and  blue,  greatly  admired  by  the 
parish,  had  to  be  removed.  The  very  plaster,  with 
ornate  pattern  of  roses,  he  had  stripped  from  the 
roof,  and  had  the  oak  laid  bare;  and  although  the 
walls  had  been  tastefully  decorated  by  a  local  firm 
with  a  mixed  border  on  a  ground  of  green,  so 
fierce  and  unrelenting  was  the  Vicar's  iconoclastic 


3i2  FATHER  JINKS 

passion  that  this  also  was  sacrificed,  and  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  in  St.  Agatha's  save  stone  and  wood. 
"  It  was  the  'omeliest  church  you  ever  see,"  that 
excellent  woman  Mrs.  Judkin  remarked  to  me,  "  in 
the  old  Canon's  time,  with  the  bits  of  colour,  and 
'im  looking  down  at  you  in  'is  black  gown ;  and  now 
it  chills  your  'art  to  sit  there  let  alone  that  you're 
hexpected  to  bow  'alf  the  time,"  and  so  Mrs.  Judkin, 
with  many  of  like  mind,  went  off  to  Ebenezer,  where 
the  firmament  was  represented  on  the  roof  and  the 
service  was  decidedly  warm.  The  structural  refor- 
mation (or  deformation,  as  it  was  generally  con- 
sidered) was  a  very  achievement  of  persevering 
and  ingenious  begging,  in  which  he  taxed  the  patron 
and  all  the  patron's  friends,  as  well  as  every  old  lady 
or  ecclesiastical  layman  with  the  reputation  of  high- 
ness, obtaining  a  pulpit  from  one  and  a  font  from 
another,  picking  up  crosses,  candlesticks,  stools, 
altar-cloths  in  all  quarters,  and  being  mightily 
cheered  by  every  addition  to  the  full  equipment 
of  this  neglected  edifice.  Nor  did  Father  Jinks 
ask  from  other  people  what  he  would  not  give 
himself,  for  he  dispensed  with  a  curate  that  he 
might  repair  the  chancel,  and,  as  appeared  after- 
wards, he  expended  all  his  little  patrimony  on 
the  apocryphal  life  of  St.  Agatha,  whose  doings 
and  appearance  as  represented  on  that  window 
were  a  subject  of  derision  to  the  wits  of  the  parish. 
When  Jinks  held  his  first  festival  in  her  honour, 
and  preached  a  discourse  eleven  minutes  in  length 


FATHER  JINKS  313 

on  St.  Agatha's  example  and  miracles,  an  interest- 
ing correspondence  followed  in  the  local  paper,  in 
which  it  was  asserted  that  the  church,  then  in  the 
country  and  a  chapel  of  ease  to  the  famous  church 
of  St.  Paul's-in-the-Fields,  was  named  in  the 
evil  Laudian  times,  and  ought  to  have  been  re- 
christened  by  the  name  of  Wycliffe  or  Latimer  in 
the  days  of  the  late  lamented  Canon;  that  St. 
Agatha  never  existed;  that  if  she  did,  she  was  a 
Papist;  that  if  we  knew  enough,  we  should  likely 
find  that  her  antecedents  were  very  doubtful. 

This  correspondence,  in  which  my  friend  him- 
self was  freely  handled,  did  not  in  the  least  disturb 
him,  for  the  Festival  of  St.  Agatha  was  a  height 
to  which  he  had  been  working  for  the  three  years, 
and  it  was  the  last  function  of  his  public  ministry. 
When  the  procession  came  out  of  the  vestry,  with 
a  cross-bearer — Jack  Storgiss,  the  grocer,  to  whose 
deformed  little  boy  Jinks  had  been  very  kind — 
the  banners  of  the  Guild  of  St.  Agatha,  a  choir 
of  six  men  and  twelve  boys  in  varied  garments, 
Father  Jinks  himself  with  everything  on  he  knew, 
attended  by  acolytes — two  little  monkeys  on  whose 
ingenuous  countenances  self-importance  struggled 
with  mischief — and,  having  marched  round  the 
church  singing  "  Onward,  Christian  soldiers,"  re- 
entered  the  chancel,  so  far  as  outward  things  went, 
the  Father's  heart  was  almost  satisfied;  and  as,  in 
his  stall,  he  thought  of  the  desolation  of  the  past 
he  was  as  one  that  dreamed. 


FATHER  JINKS 

If  Jinks  allowed  himself  to  be  proud  of  any- 
thing, it  was  of  his  choir;  and  when  people  spoke 
of  my  friend  as  a  weakling  because  he  was  in- 
significant in  appearance  and  a  feeble  preacher — 
he  himself  thanked  God  daily  that  he  was  a  priest, 
to  whom  Pastor  Jumps'  oratorical  gifts  were  un- 
necessary— one  could  always  point  to  the  choir, 
for  the  qualities  which  created  and  held  together 
that  remarkable  body  were  peculiar  to  Jinks  and 
were  quite  wanting  in  the  Pastor.  Three  years 
before  this  advertisement  had  appeared  in  the  An- 
glo-Catholic : — 

"  Wanted,  an  organist  and  choirmaster,  who  will 
be  prepared,  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  love  of 
sacred  music,  to  assist  a  priest  in  affording  Catholic 
worship  to  a  neglected  parish." 

This  unworldly  invitation  caught  the  eye  (and 
fancy)  of  Harold  de  Petre — his  original  name  was 
Henry  Peter — about  whom  his  friends  were  much 
concerned  because  he  had  a  small  competency 
and  would  do  nothing  except  work  at  music;  be- 
cause he  wore  a  brown  velvet  coat  and  a  loose  red 
bow,  and  three  ancient  gems  on  his  left  hand, 
and  his  hair  falling  over  his  ears;  and  because  he 
practised  a  certain  luxurious  softness  of  life  which 
might  pass  any  day  into  positive  vice.  Two  more 
different  men  could  not  have  been  found  in  a  day's 
journey,  but  they  became  friends  at  once.  The 
priestly  instinct  detected  at  once  in  Petre  a  gift 
whose  concentration  would  be  the  salvation  of  a 


FATHER  JINKS  315 

soul  and  an  assistance  to  the  Church  of  God;  and 
the  humility  and  sincerity  of  the  little  priest  were 
very  attractive  to  the  aesthete.  From  that  time  the 
curiously  assorted  pair  worked  together  in  per- 
fect harmony  and  ever-growing  affection,  with  one 
common  desire  to  beautify  the  worship  and  edifice 
of  St.  Agatha's.  In  order  to  secure  an  organ  Petre 
sacrificed  one-third  of  his  means,  and  was  daily  de- 
signing some  improvement  in  his  loved  instrument ; 
for  her  help  he  had  even  learned  some  organ  handi- 
craft, and  could  be  seen  almost  any  day  toiling  in 
his  shirt  sleeves.  As  he  watched  the  life  of  the 
Vicar,  Petre  began  also  to  make  many  personal  sac- 
rifices, giving  up  his  wine — used  to  spend  a  good  deal 
on  Chateau  Lafitte — to  defray  choir  expenses ;  teach- 
ing the  piano  in  the  more  ambitious  homes  of  the 
parish,  and  with  the  proceeds  providing  two  tenors 
and  two  basses  of  distinction  for  the  choir.  One 
year  he  took  no  holiday  that  the  altar  might  be 
becomingly  dressed  according  to  the  season  of  the 
Church  year,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow.  Working 
with  Jinks,  a  certain  change  even  came  over  Petre's 
outer  man;  with  every  year  he  shed  a  gem;  black 
velvet  replaced  the  brown,  and  his  hair  became  al- 
most decorous;  and  one  evening,  when  the  two 
were  having  a  lemon  squash  after  hard  work  at  the 
Easter  decorations,  Petre  made  a  confession  to  his 
friend. 

"  There  is  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Jinks," 
lighting  his  pipe  slowly,    "  My  name  is  not  really 


316  FATHER  JINKS 

Harold  de  Petre:  it's  .  .  .  just  Henry  Peter. 
Didn't  sound  very  artistic,  you  know,  and  I  just 
.  .  .  improved  it  in  fact.  Rather  think  that  I 
should  go  back  to  old  signature." 

"  My  own  name,"  said  the  Vicar  with  much  sim- 
plicity, "  isn't  a  high-class  name,  and  I  was  once 
tempted  to  change  it — it  lends  itself  too  easily  to 
abbreviations — but  it  seemed  unreal  to  do  that  kind 
of  thing." 

"  Do  you  know,  Father,  I  expect  that  anthem 
to  go  well  to-morrow;  that  little  rascal  Bags  took 
the  high  notes  magnificently  to-night.  I  told  him 
so,  and  he  was  awfully  pleased:  he's  as  keen  as 
mustard  at  practice." 

Nothing  further  was  said  about  fancy  pseudo- 
nyms, but  next  time  the  Father  saw  the  organist's 
signature  it  was  Henry  Peter. 

The  boys  in  St.  Agatha's  choir  were  not  angels, 
but  they  were  Jinks'  particular  friends,  and  would 
do  more  for  him  than  for  their  own  parents.  He 
had  picked  them  up  one  by  one  in  the  parish  as 
he  visited — for  he  had  no  school — upon  the  two 
qualifications  that  each  one  had  an  ear,  and  each 
was  an  out-and-out  boy.  Because  he  was  so  good 
himself  Jinks  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  prigs 
and  smugs;  and  because  he  did  nothing  wrong 
himself  he  delighted  in  the  scrapes  of  his  boys. 
It  was  to  him  they  went  in  trouble,  and  he  some- 
how found  a  way  of  escape.  Every  one  knew  who 
paid  for  the  broken  glass  in  the  snowball  fight 


FATHER  JINKS  317 

between  Thackeray  and  Dickens  Streets,  in  which 
Bags  and  another  chorister,  much  admired  for  his 
angelic  appearance,  led  their  neighbourhood;  and 
it  was  asserted  by  the  Protestant  party  that  the 
Papist  Vicar  was  seen  watching  the  fray  from  the 
corner.  When  an  assistant  School  Board  master 
bullied  his  boys  beyond  endurance  and  they 
brought  him  to  his  senses  with  pain  of  body,  it 
was  the  Vicar  of  St.  Agatha's  who  pled  the  case 
of  the  rebels  before  the  Board,  and  saved  them 
from  public  disgrace  and  the  Police  Court.  The 
Vicarage  and  all  its  premises  were  at  the  disposal 
of  the  boys,  and  they  availed  themselves  freely 
of  their  privileges.  Bags  kept  his  rabbits  in  the 
yard — his  parents  allowed  no  such  tenants  at 
home — and  his  fellow-warrior  of  the  snowball  fight 
had  a  promising  family  of  white  mice  in  one  of 
the  empty  rooms,  where  another  chorister  had  a 
squirrel,  and  his  friend  housed  four  dormice. 
There  was  a  fairly  complete  collection  of  pigeons 
— tumblers,  pouters,  fantails;  you  could  usually 
have  your  choice  in  pigeons  at  the  Vicarage  of  St. 
Agatha's.  The  choir  did  elementary  gymnastics  in 
what  was  the  Canoness's  drawing-room,  and  learned 
their  lessons,  if  they  were  moved  that  way,  in  the 
dining-room.  Every  Friday  evening,  after  prac- 
tice, there  was  a  toothsome  supper  of  sausages  and 
mashed  potatoes,  with  stone  ginger.  Ye  gods, 
could  any  boy  or  man  feed  higher  than  that?  On 
Saturdays  in  summer  the  Vicar  took  the  whole  gang 


3i8  FATHER  JINKS 

to  the  nearest  park,  where,  with  some  invited 
friends,  they  made  two  elevens  and  played  matches, 
with  Jinks,  who  was  too  short-sighted  to  play  him- 
self, but  was  the  keenest  of  sportsmen,  as  consulting 
umpire ;  and  on  chief  holidays  they  all  made  excur- 
sions into  the  country,  when  Harold  de  Petre  be- 
came Henry  Peter  with  a  vengeance.  And  this 
was  how  there  was  no  difficulty  in  getting  boys 
for  the  choir,  and  people  began  to  come  to  hear  the 
music  at  St.  Agatha's. 


FATHER  JINKS  319 


IV 


It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Father  Jinks 
achieved  his  heart's  desire  without  opposition, 
and  he  verified  in  his  experience  the  fact  that  a 
man's  bitterest  foes  are  those  of  his  own  house- 
hold. He  was  opposed  by  the  people's  church- 
warden, who  would  not  go  elsewhere,  declaring 
that  he  had  been  in  St.  Agatha's  before  Jinks 
was  born — which  was  not  the  case — and  would  be 
after  Jinks  had  gone,  which  turned  out  sadly  true. 
He  was  harassed  by  "  aggrieved  parishioners,"  who 
declared  by  petitions  in  all  quarters  that  they 
could  no  longer  worship  in  St.  Agatha's,  and  that 
what  with  daily  services,  fine  music,  and  decora- 
tions, the  place  was  little  better  than  a  Papist 
chapel.  His  breakfast-table  had  daily  one  or 
two  anonymous  letters  reminding  Jinks  of  his 
ordination  vfcws,  and  accusing  him  of  perjury, 
insinuating  charges  against  his  moral  character 
and  threatening  exposure,  quoting  texts  regard- 
ing the  condition  of  the  unconverted  and  the  doom 
of  hypocrites.  He  was  dragged  before  all  kinds  of 
Courts,  this  one  little  man,  and  received  every  form 
of  censure  and  admonition ;  he  was  ordered  to  pris- 


320  FATHER  JINKS 

on,  and  left  the  Vicarage  one  evening  in  a  cab.  while 
the  choir  boys,  led  by  Bags,  wanted  to  fight  the  of- 
ficer. And  when  all  these  measures  produced  no 
effect,  more  forcible  measures  were  taken  to  ex- 
press the  mind  of  the  people  and  to  re-establish  the 
Reformation  in  the  parish  of  St.  Agatha's.  A  lead- 
er was  raised  up  in  a  gentleman  who  had  earned 
an  uncertain  living  by  canvassing  for  the  Kings  of 
England  in  forty-two  parts,  in  selling  a  new  inven- 
tion in  gas-burners,  in  replying  to  infidels  in  Hyde 
Park,  and  in  describing  the  end  of  the  world  with 
the  aid  of  a  magic  lantern.  This  man  of  varied 
talents  saw  it  to  be  his  duty — and  who  can  judge 
another  man's  conscience? — to  attend  St.  Agatha's 
one  Sunday  forenoon,  accompanied  by  a  number 
of  fellow-Protestants,  who,  owing  to  the  restriction 
of  the  licensing  laws,  were  out  of  employment  at 
that  hour,  and  they  expressed  their  theological  views 
during  service  in  a  very  frank  and  animated  fashion. 
Bigger  men  than  Jinks  might  have  been  upset  by 
the  turmoil  and  menaces ;  but  it  shows  what  a  spirit 
may  dwell  in  small  bulk,  that  this  shy  modest  man 
did  not  stutter  once  that  morning,  and  seemed  in- 
deed unconscious  of  the  "  Modern  Luther's  "  pres- 
ence; and  after  the  floor  of  the  church  had  been 
washed  on  Monday  no  trace  remained  that  a  testi- 
mony had  been  lifted  up  against  the  disguised  Jesuit 
who  was  corrupting  St.  Agatha's.  Once  only  did 
Jinks  publicly  reply  to  the  hurricane  of  charges 
which  beat  upon  him  during  his  short,  hard  service, 


FATHER  JINKS  321 

and  that  was  when  he  was  accused  of  having  in- 
troduced the  confessional,  with  results  which  it 
was  alleged  were  already  well  known  in  the  district, 
and  which  would  soon  reduce  its  morality  to  the 
social  level  of  the  south  of  Ireland.  A  week  after- 
wards Jinks  explained  in  a  sermon  which  he  had 
rewritten  three  times:  (i)That  the  practice  of  con- 
fession was,  in  his  poor  judgment,  most  helpful  to 
the  spiritual  life  by  reminding  us  of  the  sins  which 
do  most  easily  beset  us,  and  their  horrible  guilt 
before  God;  (2)  That  it  was  really  the  intention 
of  the  Church  of  England  that  her  children  should 
have  this  benefit;  and  (3)  That  he,  John  James 
Jinks,  a  duly  ordained  priest  of  the  same  Church, 
had  power,  under  conditions,  to  hear  confessions 
and  declare  the  forgiveness  of  sins  to  all  true  peni- 
tents. Thereafter,  he  went  on  to  state  that  he  had 
not  introduced  confession  as  a  practice  in  St.  Aga- 
tha's, because  he  had  never  been  trained  in  confes- 
sional theology,  because  a  confessor  required  au- 
thority from  his  bishop,  and  this  the  bishop  would 
not  give;  and,  finally,  it  seemed  to  him  that  any 
confessor  must  be  a  priest  with  a  special  knowledge 
of  life,  and  of  conspicuous  holiness;  and,  as  they 
knew  well,  he  was  neither,  but  only  an  ignorant 
and  frail  man,  who  was  more  conscious  of  his 
deficiencies  every  day,  and  who  earnestly  besought 
the  aid  of  their  prayers.  This  sermon  was  re- 
ported in  the  Islington  Mercury,  which  circulated 
largely  amongst  us,  and  called  forth  an  ingenious 


322  FATHER  JINKS 

reply  from  the  "  Modern  Luther,"  who  pointed  out 
that  if  Mr.  Jinks  had  not  set  up  a  confessional  box 
in  St.  Agatha's  church,  it  was  only  because  his  (the 
"Modern  Luther's")  eye  was  upon  him;  that  the 
confessional  could  likely  be  discovered  in  the  Vicar- 
age ;  that  in  so  far  as  Mr.  Jinks  was  not  telling  the 
truth  he  would  receive  absolution  from  the  Jesuits, 
and  that  he  very  likely  had  already  received  a  li- 
cense to  tell  as  many  lies  as  he  saw  would  help  his 
cause.  Men,  however,  do  count  for  something  even 
in  religious  controversy,  and  the  very  people  who 
had  no  belief  in  Jinks'  doctrine  could  see  some  dif- 
ference between  his  patient,  charitable,  self-sacri- 
ficing life  and  the  career  of  a  windbag  like  the 
"  Modern  Luther,"  and  no  one  in  the  last  year  of  his 
life  accused  Jinks  of  falsehood. 

During  all  these  troubled  days  he  never  lost 
his  temper,  or  said  bitter  things:  he  believed,  as 
he  once  told  me  in  all  modesty,  that  if  he  suffered 
it  was  for  his  sins,  and  that  persecution  was  only 
a  call  to  harder  labour ;  and  it  appeared  afterwards 
that  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  do  a  good 
turn  to  certain  of  his  bitterest  enemies.  Indeed, 
I  am  now  certain  that  they  did  not  injure  him  at 
all ;  but  one  is  also  quite  as  certain  that  he  was 
hindered  and  made  ridiculous  by  certain  of  his 
own  supporters.  Certain  young  women  of  un- 
certain age  who  had  been  district  visitors  and 
carried  tracts  under  the  revered  Canon,  or  had 
been  brought  up  in  various  forms  of  Dissent, 


FATHER  JINKS  323 

responded  with  enthusiasm  to  the  Catholic  Ref- 
ormation. They  wore  large  gold  (or  gilt)  crosses, 
and  were  careful  to  use  heavily  crossed  prayer- 
books;  they  attended  early  celebration,  and  were 
horrified  at  people  taking  the  sacrament  not 
fasting;  they  not  only  did  obeisance  to  the  altar, 
where  there  was  no  sacrament,  and  bowed  at  the 
name  of  Jesus,  and  crossed  themselves  in  a  very 
diligent  and  comprehensive  fashion,  but  invented 
forms  of  devotion  which  even  Jinks  could  not  com- 
prehend, and  so  scandalized  the  old  clerk,  who  stuck 
by  St.  Agatha's,  that  he  asked  them  one  day  during 
service  if  they  were  ill,  and  suggested  that  they 
should  leave  the  church  before  things  came  to  the 
worst.  Personally,  as  a  close  observer  of  this 
drama,  I  had  no  sympathy  with  the  ill-natured  sug- 
gestion that  these  devout  females  were  moved  by 
the  fact  that  the  priest  of  St.  Agatha's  was  unmar- 
ried, because  no  man  was  ever  more  careful  in  his 
intercourse  with  the  other  sex  than  my  friend,  and 
because  this  kind  of  woman — till  she  marries,  and 
with  modifications  afterwards — has  a  mania  for 
ritual  and  priests.  This  band,  who  called  them- 
selves the  Sisters  of  St.  Agatha,  and  severely  tried 
our  unsentimental  district,  were  a  constant  embar- 
rassment to  Jinks.  They  made  the  entire  attend- 
ance at  the  daily  services ;  they  insisted  on  cleaning 
the  chancel  on  their  knees ;  they  fluttered  round  the 
confused  little  man  in  the  street ;  they  could  hardly 
be  kept  out  of  the  Vicarage;  they  talked  of  noth- 


324  FATHER  JINKS 

ing  but  saints'  days  and  offices  and  vestments,  till 
Jinks,  the  simplest  and  honestest  of  men,  was  tempt- 
ed, for  his  sake  and  their  own  salvation,  to  entreat 
them  to  depart  and  return  whence  they  had  come. 


FATHER  JINKS  325 


The  strongest  and  most  honourable  opponent 
the  Vicar  had  was  my  other  friend,  Pastor  Jump, 
who  would  not  condescend  to  the  methods  or 
company  of  the  "  Modern  Luther,"  but  who  was 
against  both  Jinks  and  Jinks'  Church,  whether  it 
was  Low,  High,  Broad,  or  anything  else,  on 
grounds  of  reason  and  conscience.  He  did  not 
believe  in  creeds,  whether  they  were  made  in 
Rome  or  Geneva,  and  considered  a  Presbyter  just 
a  shade  better  than  a  priest.  His  one  book  of 
theology  was  the  Bible,  which  he  knew  from  Gene- 
sis to  Revelation  in  the  English  Version  (he  also 
knew  far  more  about  the  Hebrew  and  Greek  than  the 
Canon  did),  and  he  found  his  ecclesiastical  model 
in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  It  was  indeed  the 
Pastor's  firm  conviction  that  the  Christian  Church 
had  only  had  two  periods  of  purity  in  her  history,  one 
under  the  charge  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  the  other 
under  the  Puritans;  and  that  if,  during  her  whole 
history,  bishops  and  such  like  people  had  been 
replaced  by  Puritan  ministers,  it  would  have  been 
much  better  for  Christianity  and  for  the  world.  His 
idea  of  a  Christian  was  a  person  who  knew  the  day 


326  FATHER  JINKS 

that  he  had  been  converted,  and  who  afterwards 
had  been  baptized;  and  of  the  Church,  that  it  was 
so  many  of  these  people  with  a  pastor  to  teach 
them.  He  detested  Established  Churches,  priests, 
and  liturgies,  as  well  as  the  House  of  Lords,  capital- 
ists, and  all  privileged  persons.  His  radicalism  was 
however  tempered  by  a  profound  belief  in  himself 
and  his  own  opinions.  He  was  fond  of  insisting 
on  the  rights  of  the  masses ;  but  when  the  working 
people  wished  to  have  the  Park  open  on  Sunday 
that  they  might  walk  there  with  their  children, 
the  Pastor  fought  them  tooth  and  nail,  and  he  re- 
garded their  desire  to  see  pictures  on  Sunday  as  the 
inspiration  of  Satan.  No  man  was  ever  more  elo- 
quent upon  the  principles  of  religious  liberty,  but 
he  would  have  put  an  infidel  into  prison  without 
compunction,  and  he  drave  forth  a  deacon  from  his 
own  congregation  with  contumely,  who  held  un- 
sound views  on  the  Atonement.  The  tyranny  of 
the  Papacy  was  a  favourite  theme  at  Ebenezer,  as 
well  as  the  insolence  of  priests ;  but  every  one  knew 
that  Pastor  Jump  as  Pope  was  infallible  without 
the  aid  of  any  Council,  and  that  his  little  finger 
was  heavier  in  personal  rule  than  both  Jinks'  arms. 
When  the  Pastor,  who  had  the  voice  of  a  coster- 
monger  and  the  fist  of  a  prize-fighter,  was  carried 
away  at  a  Liberation  Society  meeting  by  his  own 
undoubted  eloquence,  and  described  himself  as  a 
conscientious  Dissenter,  despised  by  the  proud 
priests  of  the  Anglican  Church,  and  next  day  one 


FATHER  JINKS  327 

saw  Jinks,  thinner  than  ever,  hurrying  along  the 
street,  and  concealing  beneath  his  shabby  cloak  some 
dainty  for  a  sick  child,  then  one  had  a  quite  convinc- 
ing illustration  of  the  power  and  utility  of  rhetoric. 
Upon  occasion  the  Pastor  felt  it  his  duty  to  de- 
part from  his  usual  course  of  evangelical  doctrine, 
and  to  enlighten  his  people  on  some  historical  sub- 
ject, and  the  district  was  once  shaken  by  a  discourse 
on  Oliver  Cromwell,  whom  he  compared  to  Elijah, 
and  whose  hatred  of  the  Baal  worship  was  held  up 
for  imitation  in  our  own  day.  Jinks  committed 
the  one  big  mistake  of  his  ministry  by  replying 
with  a  sermon  on  St.  Charles  the  Blessed  Martyr 
— I  think  he  said  St. — which  was  a  very  weak  per- 
formance, and  left  the  laurels  altogether  with  Ebe- 
nezer.  It  must  indeed  be  admitted  that  Jump  ex- 
actly expressed  the  mind  of  an  Englishman  of  the 
lower  middle  class,  who  understands  the  Evangel- 
ical system  and  no  other,  and  likes  extempore  pray- 
er, with  its  freedom,  variety,  warmth,  and  surprises, 
who  suspects  priests  of  wishing  to  meddle  with  his 
family  affairs,  and  dislikes  all  official  pretensions, 
although  willing  to  be  absolutely  ruled  by  a  strong 
man's  personality.  Both  were  extreme  men,  and 
both  were  needed  to  express  the  religious  sense  of 
an  English  parish.  Jump  considered  the  Canon 
an  indefensible  humbug,  neither  one  thing  nor 
another,  and  the  Canon  used  to  pass  Jump  on  the 
street ;  but  the  Sunday  after  Jinks'  death  the  Pastor, 
who  had  a  warm  heart  in  his  big  body^  and  testified 


328  FATHER  JINKS 

of  things  he  had  seen,  passed  a  eulogium  on  the 
late  Vicar  of  St.  Agatha's,  so  generous  and  affect- 
ing, that  beside  it  the  peeping  little  sermon  preached 
in  St.  Agatha's  by  a  "  Father  "  of  the  "  Anglican 
Friars "  was  as  water  to  wine.  The  Pastor  de- 
clared that  although  he  did  not  agree  with  his  doc- 
trine, he  knew  no  man  who  had  lived  nearer  his 
Lord,  or  had  done  more  good  works  than  the  Vicar 
of  St.  Agatha's;  and  that  if  every  priest  had  been 
like  him,  he  would  never  say  a  word  against  the 
class.  The  people  heard  his  voice  break  as  he 
spoke  and  two  deacons  wiped  their  eyes,  and  the 
angels  set  down  the  sermon  in  that  Book  where  the 
record  of  our  controversies  is  blotted  out  by  their 
tears,  and  our  deeds  of  charity  are  written  in  gold. 
Perhaps,  however,  our  poor  priest  suffered  most 
in  some  ways  at  the  hands  of  a  handful  of  Scots 
who  had  settled  in  the  parish.  They  did  not  oppose 
any  of  his  proceedings,  for  they  never  condescended 
to  cross  the  door  of  St.  Agatha's,  and  they  accepted 
any  extravagances  of  ritual  as  things  to  be  expected 
of  an  Episcopalian.  Nor  had  they,  like  the  Pastor, 
a  hereditary  feud  with  the  Anglican  Church,  for 
neither  they  nor  their  fathers  ever  had  anything  to 
do  with  it.  They  were  indeed  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  Prayer-Book,  where  the  officiating  clergy- 
man is  called  a  Minister  and  a  Priest  alternately, 
is  admirably  suited  to  the  English  mind,  to  which 
the  Almighty  has  been  pleased  to  deny  the  gift 
of  logic.  What  touched,  and  (almost)  nettled,  the 


FATHER  JINKS  329 

little  Father  was  the  tacit  and  immovable  superi- 
ority of  the  Scots,  which  made  conversion  impossi- 
ble, and  even  pastoral  conversation  difficult.  It  was 
Jinks'  conscientious  conviction  that  he  was  respon- 
sible for  the  spiritual  charge  of  all  the  people  in  the 
parish,  and  so  he  visited  laboriously  among  the 
Scots  schismatics,  if  haply  he  might  bring  them  to 
the  true  faith,  with  mortifying  results.  Old  An- 
drew MacKittrick  seemed  to  Jinks'  innocent  mind 
a  promising  case,  because  Andrew  had  retired  on 
a  pension  after  keeping  the  books  of  a  drysalter's 
firm  for  forty  years,  and  now  had  nothing  to  do 
but  argue.  In  fact,  on  the  Vicar's  first  visit,  the 
bookkeeper  fairly  smacked  his  lips,  seeing  whole 
afternoons  of  intellectual  diversion  before  him; 
and  Jinks,  who  was  ever  optimistic,  already  im- 
agined the  responsible-looking  figure  of  the  Scot 
sustaining  a  procession.  It  turned  out  a  lamen- 
table instance  of  cross-purposes,  for  Jinks  was  burn- 
ing to  prove,  with  all  tenderness,  that  the  Kirk 
had  no  Orders;  while  the  idea  that  Dr.  Chalmers 
was  not  a  real  minister  and  Archbishop  Sharpe 
was,  seemed  to  Andrew  unworthy  of  discussion  by 
any  sane  person;  and  Andrew,  on  his  part,  was 
simply  longing  for  some  one  to  attack  Jonathan 
Edwards'  Freedom  of  the  Will,  while  Jinks  had 
never  heard  of  the  book,  and  was  quite  blameless 
of  philosophy.  After  two  conferences,  Andrew 
was  sadly  convinced  of  their  futility,  and  woulcj 
not  waste  time  on  a  third, 


330  FATHER  JINKS 

"  Jess  wumman,"  he  said  to  his  housekeeper,  roll- 
ing himself  hurriedly  up  in  a  plaid  and  lying  down 
on  the  sofa,  "  there's  that  curate  body  at  the  door 
again ;  a've  nae  satisfaction  arguin'  wi'  him,  for  he's 
no  fit  to  tak'  up  ony  serious  subject.  Just  say  that 
a'm  no  feelin'  verra  weel  the  day,  and,  see  here, 
slip  ten  shillings  into  his  hand  to  gie  awa',  for  he's 
a  fine  bit  craturie  amang  the  poor,  but  he's  no  head 
for  argument." 

With  Mrs.  Gillespie,  who  kept  lodgings,  and 
was  as  a  mother  to  two  Scots  bank  clerks  push- 
ing their  way  up  to  be  managers,  Father  Jinks 
was  not  more  successful,  but  his  discomfiture  was 
of  another  kind. 

"  Come  in,  come  in ;  it's  an  awfu'  day  to  be  oot, 
an'  ye  dinna  look  strong;  na,  na,  a  dinna  gang  to 
Saint  Agatha's,  for  ye  ken  we've  a  Kirk  o'  oor  ain, 
an'  a  properly  ordained  minister,  but  a'm  gled  to 
see  ye ;  a'm  thankf u'  for  my  ain  preevileges,  but  a'm 
no  bigoted. 

"  Sit  doon  there  by  the  fire  an'  dry  yersel ;  a  cudna 
manage  wi'  a  prayer-book  masel,  but  we've  had 
mony  advantages  in  Scotland,  and  it  suits  the  Eng- 
lish fouk.  A  hed  a  cousin  'at  married  an  Episco- 
palian, and  she  gied  wi'  him  as  long  as  he  lived, 
though  of  course  it  was  a  deprivation. 

' '  A  schismatic  ?  ' — a've  heard  the  word :  they 
used  to  misca'  the  English  bishops  that  way  in  the 
North — an'  ye  called  to  warn  me.  Noo  that  was 
kind,  and,  of  coorse,  ye  did  na  know  that  a  sit  under 


FATHER   JINKS  331 

Mr.  McCaw;  but  Losh  keep  us!  ye're  juist  dreep- 
ing ;  a'll  get  ye  a  pair  o'  the  lad's  slippers  an'  mak  ye 
a  warm  cup  o'  tea. 

"  A  hed  a  laddie  juist  your  age,  an'  ma  heart 
warms  to  young  men  that  are  na  verra  strong. 
Say  awa' ;  a'll  hear  ye  though  a'm  in  the  next  room. 
There  noo,  drink  up  your  tea,  an'  that's  short-bread 
frae  Edinburgh.  Let's  hear  noo  aboot  yer  Kirk; 
somebody  was  sayin'  that  ye  carried  on  the  same 
antics  as  the  Papists;  but  a'm  no  believin'  that. 
Are  ye  f eelin'  warmer  noo,  ma  puir  wee  mannie  ?  " 
and  the  good  woman  encompassed  Jinks  with  moth- 
erly attentions,  but  refused  to  take  seriously  his 
efforts  to  convert  her  from  the  Kirk  to  the  Church. 
Nor  did  he  think  it  an  encouraging  sign  that  Mrs. 
Gillespie  pressed  him  to  give  her  "  a  cry  "  every 
time  he  was  in  the  street,  and  sent  him  three  pots  of 
black  currant  jam  for  his  chest. 

The  most  disappointing  encounter  was  with  our 
Scots  doctor,  who  had  looked  into  St.  Agatha's  one 
evening  in  passing  and  found  Jinks  warning  Dis- 
senters of  all  kinds,  among  whom  the  Doctor  found 
to  his  amusement  that  he  was  included  of  their  doom 
if  they  died  in  schism.  The  Doctor's  delight 
reached  its  height  when  Jinks,  standing  at  his  full 
height  of  five  feet  four,  and  looking  more  than 
ever  like  a  dear  little  boy,  opened  his  arms  and  in- 
vited every  wandering  prodigal  to  return  to  the  bos- 
om of  Mother  Church. 

"  Jinksy "— and   the   Doctor   laid    hold    of   the 


332  FATHER  JINKS 

Father  next  day  on  the  street — "  what  sort  of  non- 
sense was  yon  ye  were  talking  in  your  kirk  last 
night  ? 

"  Hurt  my  feelings " — as  Jinks  was  explaining 
that  he  had  only  been  declaring  the  truth,  and  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  offend  any  one — "  it  would  take 
three  men  of  your  size  to  offend  me.  But  I  say, 
Jinksy,  do  you  ever  take  a  holiday  in  Scotland? 
You  hope  to  do  some  day.  Then  I'll  give  ye  a  bit  of 
advice :  if  you  ever  feel  a  turr-murring  in  your  in- 
side, take  the  first  train  for  Carlisle.  Why?  Be- 
cause if  you  die  in  Scotland,  you'll  die  a  Dissenter ; 
and  then,  my  little  man,  you  know  where  you'll  go 
to  " ;  for  the  Doctor's  hand  in  humour  was  heavy, 
and  his  style  was  that  of  an  elephant  crashing 
through  a  wood. 


FATHER  JINKS  333 


VI 


Next  time  the  Anglican  and  the  Scot  met  it 
was  in  circumstances  where  differences  of  creed 
are  forgotten  and  good  men  stand  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der. In  one  room  of  the  house  a  clerk's  wife  was 
seriously  ill  with  influenza,  and  in  another  the  Doc- 
tor was  examining  her  husband — a  patient,  hard 
working,  poorly  paid  drudge,  who  had  come  home 
from  the  City  very  ill.  "  My  wife  thinks  that  it's  noth- 
ing but  a  bad  'eadache.  Don't  tell  'er,  Doctor,  else 
it  might  go  bad  with  'er,  an'  she  'asn't  much 
strength;  but  I  say,  tell  me,  'aven't  I  got  diphthe- 
ria?" 

"  What  makes  everybody  that  gets  a  sore  throat 
think  he  has  diphtheria?  Well,  I  believe  you  have 
some  grit  in  you,  and  don't  want  to  be  treated 
like  a  child.  You  have,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  and  pretty 
bad ;  but  you  have  the  spirit  to  make  a  fight,  and  I'll 
do  my  best. 

"Yes,  I'll  see  that  no  one  in  this  house  comes 
near  you,  and  I'll  try  to  get  a  nurse  for  to-night, 
but  they're  hard  to  get  just  now.  I'll  come  back 
with  medicine  in  half  an  hour;  and,  look  here, 
Holmes,  mind  your  wife  and  bairns,  and  keep  up 
your  heart, 


334  FATHER  JINKS 

"  No,  Jinks,  you  must  not  come  into  this  house : 
it's  more  than  influenza.  Holmes  has  got  diph- 
theria very  bad ;  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  two  days 
ago,  but  the  stupid  ass  stuck  to  his  work.  The  mis- 
chief is  that  I  can't  get  a  nurse,  and  he  should  not 
be  left  alone  at  night. 

"  You,  man  alive,  you're  no  fit  for  such  work, 
and  you  would  maybe  catch  it  ...  I  know 
you're  not  afraid,  but  .  .  .  well,  its  real  gude 
o*  ye,  an'  I'll  see  ye  settled  for  the  night  about 
eight. 

"  That's  the  medicine,  every  three  hours  " — the 
doctor  was  giving  his  directions  to  Nurse  Jinks  in 
the  sick-room — "  and  let  him  have  some  brandy  and 
water  when  he's  thirsty.  Toots,  Holmes,  I  know 
you  could  get  a  bottle  for  yourself,  but  this  is  a 
special  brand  for  sick  folk.  Oh,  yes,  it'll  go  in  the 
bill,  risk  me  for  that:  every  Scot  looks  after  him- 
self. The  minister  is  to  stay  all  night  with  you,  and 
what  between  the  two  of  us  we'll  see  ye  through. 

"  Here's  a  cordial  for  yourself,  Jinks  " — this  out- 
side the  door — "  and  for  ony  sake  keep  clear  of  his 
breath.  If  he  takes  a  turn  for  the  worse,  send  the 
servant  lass  for  me.  I  may  be  out,  but  they  will 
know  where  to  get  me.  And,  Jinks,  old  man,  I 
withdraw  that  about  Carlisle.  .  .  .  Ye'll  go  to 
Heaven  from  either  side  o'  the  Tweed.  God  bless 
you,  old  man;  you're  doin'  a  good  turn  the  night 

"  Yes,  he's  much  worse  than  he  was  last  morning ; 


FATHER  JINKS  335 

but  it's  not  the  blame  of  your  nursing:  there's  just 
one  chance,  and  I'll  try  it.  How  do  you  know 
about  it  ?  Well,  yes,  if  you  must  know,  I  am  going 
to  use  suction.  Get  diphtheria  myself?  Maybe  I 
may,  and  why  should  I  not  run  the  risk  as  well  as 
you,  Mr.  Jinks?  .  .  .  It's  all  right,  man.  I'm 
not  angry.  Neither  you  nor  me  are  cowards,"  said 
the  Doctor ;  "  neither  is  Holmes,  and  he  must  have 
his  chance,  poor  chap.  Yes,  I  would  be  glad  of 
your  help. 

"  No,  you  will  not  be  needed  at  Holmes's  to-night, 
and  you've  had  enough  of  it,  Jinks.  I've  got  a 
nurse,  and  Holmes  is  coming  round  first  rate.  It's 
all  right  about  paying  the  nurse;  I'll  see  to  that. 
Man,  ye  would  pay  for  all  the  nurses  in  the  dis- 
trict, if  ye  were  allowed. 

"  Me,  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle.  Doctors  can't  afford 
to  be  ill;  but  you're  no  the  thing,  Jinks.  Come 
back  to  the  manse  with  me  this  minute,  I  want  to 
have  a  look  at  ye.  Yon  were  three  hard  nichts 
ye  had  " — the  Doctor  dropped  into  Scots  when  he 
was  excited.  .  .  . 

"  Sir  Andrew's  gone,  and  I  wish  we  had  better 
news  for  you  and  ourselves.  Don't  thank  me  for 
telling  the  truth;  no  man  would  tell  you  a  lie. 
.  .  .  You're  all  right,  whatever  happens,  Jinks," 
and  he  dropped  his  hand  within  reach  of  the 
Father's,  on  whose  face  the  shadow  was  fast  falling. 

"  It  will  not  be  for  some  hours,  may  be  not  till 
morning,  and  I  hope  you'll  not  suffer  much  .  .  . 


336  FATHER  JINKS 

I'll  come  back  after  the  minister  has  left  and  stay 
with  you  till,  till     .     .     ." 
"  Daybreak,"  said  Jinks. 

"  Doctor,"  Jinks  whispered,  during  the  night  as 
they  watched  by  his  bed,  the  Scot  on  one  side  and 
Peter,  who  would  allow  no  nurse,  on  the  other, 
"  the  Scots  kirk  has  seemed  to  me  ...  as 
Samaria,  but  the  Lord  chose  ...  a  Samari- 
tan in  his  parable,  and  you  are  .  .  .  that  Sa- 
maritan," and  the  Father  looked  at  the  Doctor  with 
eyes  full  of  love.  Just  before  sunrise  he  glanced 
at  the  Doctor  enquiringly. 

"  Yes,  it's  no  far  off  now,  an'  the  worst's  past. 
Ye'll  have  an  easy  passage."  They  passed  each  an 
arm  round  his  neck,  and  each  took  one  of  his  hands. 

"  Till  Jesus  comes  Himself,"  whispered  Jinks, 
thanking  them  with  his  eyes. 

"  O  Saviour  of  the  world,  who  by  Thy  cross  and 
precious  blood  hast  redeemed  us,  save  us,  and  help 
us,  we  humbly  beseech  Thee,  O  Lord."  This  which 
he  had  often  offered  for  others,  he  now  prayed  for 
himself  very  slowly.  The  light  stole  into  the  room 
and  woke  him  from  a  brief  unconsciousness. 

"  I  believe  "...  he  said,  "  in  the  Life  Ever- 
lasting," and  the  soul  of  the  faithful  servant  was 
with  the  Lord,  Whom,  not  having  seen,  he  had 
loved. 

When  the  Doctor  left  the  Vicarage,  although 
still  very  early,  Bags,  the  choir-boy,  was  on  the 
doorstep  and  was  weeping  bitterly. 


THE   PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 


It  was  an  ancient  custom  that  Domsie  and 
Drumsheugh  should  dine  with  Doctor  Davidson 
in  the  Manse  after  the  distribution  of  prizes  at 
the  school,  and  his  companions  both  agreed  after- 
wards that  the  Dominie  was  never  more  cheerful 
than  on  those  days.  There  was  always  a  review 
of  stories  when  the  Doctor  and  Domsie  brought 
out  their  favourites,  with  Drumsheugh  for  an  im- 
partial and  appreciative  audience,  and  every  little 
addition  or  improvement  was  noted  in  a  spirit  of 
appreciative  criticism. 

During  the  active  operations  of  dinner,  talk 
was  disjointed  and  educational,  hinging  on  the 
prospects  of  the  calf  crop  in  the  school,  and  the 
golden  glories  of  the  past,  ever  better  than  the 
present,  when  the  end  of  each  University  ses- 
sion showered  medals  on  Drumtochty.  When  the 
Doctor  had  smacked  his  first  glass  of  port,  having 
examined  it  against  the  light,  and  the  others  had 
prepared  their  toddy  in  a  careful  silence,  broken 
only  by  wise  suggestions  from  the  host,  it  was  un- 
derstood that  genuine  conversation  might  begin. 

"  Aye,  aye,"  Domsie  would  remark,  by  way  of 
intimating  that  they,  being  now  in  an  open  and 

339 


340    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

genial  mind,  were  ready  to  welcome  one  of  the  Doc- 
tor's best  stories,  and  Drumsheugh  became  insistent. 

"  A'm  no  wantin'  tae  tribble  ye,  Docter,  but  ave 
never  got  ower  that  sermon  on  the  turtle,  Docter. 
Ye  micht  let's  hear  it  again.  A'm  no  sure  gin  the 
Dominie  ever  herd  it."  May  Drumsheugh  be  for- 
given ! 

Whereupon  Domsie  went  on  the  back  trail,  and 
affected  to  search  his  memory  for  the  traces  of  the 
turtle,  with  no  satisfaction.  May  he  also  be  for- 
given ! 

"  Toots,  Drumsheugh,  you  are  trying  to  draw 
my  leg.  I  know  you  well,  eh  ?  As  for  you,  Dom- 
inie, you've  heard  the  story  twenty  times.  Well, 
well,  just  to  please  you ;  but  mind  you,  this  is  the 
last  time. 

"  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  sermon  that  old  Mac- 
Fee,  of  Glenogil,  used  to  preach  on  the  Monday 
after  the  Sacrament  from  the  text,  '  The  voice  of 
the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land,'  and  this  was  the 
introduction. 

"  There  will  be  many  wonders  in  the  latter  day ; 
but  this  is  the  greatest  of  them  all — the  voice  of 
the  turtle  shall  be  heard  in  the  land.  This  marvel 
falls  into  two  parts,  which  we  shall  consider  briefly 
and  in  order. 

"LA  new  posture  evidently  implied,  when  an 
animal  that  has  gone  upon  its  belly  for  ages  shall 
arise  on  its  hind  legs  and  walk  majestically  through 
the  land,  and 


"  II.  A  new  voice  distinctly  promised,  when  a 
creature  that  has  kept  silence  from  generation  to 
generation  will  at  last  open  its  mouth  and  sing  me- 
lodiously among  the  people." 

"  It's  michty,"  summed  up  Drumsheugh,  after 
the  exposition  had  been  fully  relished.  "  Ye'll  no 
hear  the  like  o'  that  noo-a-days  in  a  coonty.  It's 
weel  telt  also,  and  that's  important,  for  the  best 
story  is  no  worth  hearin'  frae  a  puir  hand.  The 
corn  needs  to  be  cleaned  afore  ye  tak  it  tae 
market. 

"  The  story  is  not  without  merit,"  and  the  Doc- 
tor's modesty  was  all  the  more  striking  as  he  was 
supposed  to  have  brought  the  turtle  into  its  present 
form  out  of  the  slenderest  materials,  "  but  the  Dom- 
inie has  some  far  neater  things."  Anything 
Domsie  had  was  from  Aberdeen,  and  not  to  be 
compared,  he  explained,  with  Perthshire  work,  be- 
ing very  dry  and  wanting  the  fruity  flavour  of  the 
Midland  County;  but  he  could  still  recall  the  di- 
visions of  the  action  sermon  given  every  year  before 
the  winter  Sacrament  in  Bourtrie-Lister : 

I.  "  Let  us  remember  that  there  is  a  moral  law 
in  the  universe." 

II.  "  Let  us  be  thankful  there  is  a  way  of  escape 
from  it." 

And  then  Domsie  would  chuckle  with  a  keen 
sense  of  irony  at  the  theology  underneath.  "  For 
the  summer  Sacrament,"  he  would  add  after  a 
pause,  "  we  had  a  discourse  on  sin  wi'  twa  heads. 


342    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

'  Original  Sin  '  and  '  Actual  Transgressions  ' ;  and 
after  Maister  Deuchar  finished  wi'  the  first,  he  aye 
snuffed,  and  said  with  great  cheerfulness :  '  Now 
let  us  proceed  to  actual  transgressions.' " 

Although  Domsie's  tales  had  never  in  them  the 
body  of  the  Doctor's,  yet  he  told  them  with  such 
a  pawkie  humour,  that  Drumsheugh  was  fain  be- 
tween the  two  to  cry  for  mercy,  being  often  reduced 
to  the  humiliation  of  open  laughter,  of  which  he 
was  afterwards  much  ashamed. 

On  that  day,  however,  when  Domsie  made  his 
lamentable  announcement,  it  was  evident  to  his 
friends  that  he  was  cast  down,  and  ill  at  ease. 
He  only  glanced  at  a  Horace  which  the  Doctor 
had  been  fool  enough  to  buy  in  Edinburgh,  and 
had  treasured  up  for  Domsie's  delectation  at  the 
close  of  the  school  year — the  kind  of  book  he  loved 
to  handle,  linger  over,  return  to  gaze  at,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  Catholic  with  a  relic. 

"  Printed,  do  you  see,  by  Henry  Stephen,  of 
Paris;  there's  his  trademark,  a  philosopher  gather- 
ing twigs  from  the  tree  of  knowledge — and  bound 
by  Boyet — old  French  morocco.  There  is  a  coat 
of  arms — I  take  it  of  a  peer  of  France ; "  and 
the  Doctor,  a  born  book-collector,  showed  all  its 
points,  as  Drumsheugh  would  have  expatiated  on 
a  three-year-old  bullock. 

Domsie  could  not  quite  resist  the  contagious 
enthusiasm;  putting  on  his  spectacles  to  test  the 
printing;  running  his  hand  over  the  gold  tooling 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    343 

as  one  strokes  a  horse's  glossy  skin,  and  tasting 
afresh  one  or  two  favourite  verses  from  a  Horace 
printed  and  bound  by  the  master  craftsmen  of 
their  day.  But  it  was  only  a  brief  rally,  and  Dom- 
sie  sank  again  into  silence,  from  which  neither  kind- 
ly jest  nor  shrewd  country  talk  could  draw  him,  till 
at  last  the  Doctor  asked  him  a  straight  question, 
which  was  going  far  for  us,  who  thought  it  the 
worst  of  manners  to  pry  into  one's  secrets : 

"  What  ails  you,  Dominie  ?  Are  any  of  your 
laddies  going  back  on  you  ?  "  and  the  Doctor  cov- 
ered the  inquiry  by  reminding  Drumsheugh  that 
his  glass  was  low. 

"  Na,  na ;  they  are  f  echting  hard  wi'  body  and 
mind,  an'  daein'  their  verra  best,  accordin'  tae  their 
pairts.  Some  o'  the  Drumtochty  scholars  lived  and 
some  dee'd  in  the  war  at  the  University,  but  there 
wasna  ane  disgraced  his  pairish." 

"  They  have  made  it  known  in  every  University 
of  Scotland,"  broke  in  the  Doctor,  "  and  also  their 
master's  name." 

"  Ye've  aye  made  ower  mickle  o'  my  wark,  but 
a'm  grateful  this  nicht  an'  content  to  tak'  a'  ye  say 
in  yir  goodness,  for  a've  sent  oot  ma  last  scholar," 
and  Domsie's  voice  broke. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Man  alive,  you're  fit  for  ten 
years  yet,  and  as  for  laddies,  I  know  four  in  the 
school  that'll  do  you  credit,  or  I'm  not  minister  of 
Drumtochty." 

"  If  it's  the  siller  for  their  fees,"  began  Drums- 


344    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

heugh,  inwardly  overcome  by  Domsie's  unexpected 
breakdown. 

Domsie  waved  his  hand.  "  The  laddies  are 
there,  and  the  twa  or  three  notes  'ill  be  gotten  as 
afore,  but  it  'ill  no  be  me  that  'ill  feenish  them." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Mister  Jamieson?  " 
demanded  the  Doctor  sternly,  for  the  woeful  de- 
jection of  Domsie  was  telling  on  him  also. 

"  It's  been  on  ma  mind  for  years  to  retire,  an' 
maybe  I  should  hae  dune  it  lang  syne;  but  it  was 
hard  on  flesh  an'  blude.  I  hev  taught  ma  last  class, 
and  ye  will  need  to  get  another  Dominie,"  and  Dom- 
sie, who  was  determined  to  play  the  man,  made  a 
show  of  filling  his  glass,  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  Ye're  an  Aiberdeenshire  man  a  ken,  though 
maist  fouk  hae  forgotten  that  ye're  no  ain'  o'  oor- 
sels,  but  div  ye  tell  me  that  ye're  gain'  tae  leave 
us  after  a'  thae  years  an'  a'  the  bairns  ye've  edu- 
cat  ?  "  and  Drumsheugh  grew  indignant. 

"  Dinna  be  feared,  Drumsheugh,  or  think  me  un- 
grateful. I  may  gang  north  tae  see  ma  birthplace 
aince  mair,  an'  the  graves  o'  ma  fouk,  an'  there's 
another  hoose  in  Aberdeen  I  would  like  tae  see, 
and  then  I'm  comin'  back  to  Drumtochty  to  live  an' 
dee  here  among  the  friends  that  hev  been  kind  to 
me." 

"  This  has  come  suddenly,  Domsie,  and  is  a 
little  upsetting,"  and  Drumsheugh  noticed  that  the 
Doctor  was  shaken.  "  We  have  worked  side  by 
side  for  a  long  time,  church  and  school,  and  I  was 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    345 

hoping  that  there  would  be  no  change  till — till  we 
both  retired  altogether;  we're  about  the  same  age. 
Can't  you  think  over  it — eh,  Dominie  ?  " 

"  God  kens,  Doctor,  a  dinna  lik'  the  thocht  o't, 
but  it's  for  the  gude  o'  the  schule.  A'm  no  hear- 
ing sae  weel  as  aince  a  did,  an'  ma  hands  are  shakin' 
in  the  writin'.  The  scholars  are  gettin'  their  due, 
for  a'm  no  failin'  in  humanity  (Latin),  but  the  ither 
bairns  are  losing  their  share,  and  ma  day's  dune. 

"  Ye  'ill  juist  say  that  a'm  retirin'  an'  thank  a' 
body  for  their  consideration,  and,  Doctor,  a've  juist 
a  favour  tae  ask.  Gin  a  new  schule  an'  maister's 
hoose  be  built  will  ye  lat  me  get  the  auld  ane ;  it  'ill 
no  be  worth  much  an'  ...  I  wud  like  tae  end 
ma  days  there." 

"  Whate'er  you  want,  Domsie,  and  ye  'ill  come 
to  the  Manse  till  it  be  free,  and  we  'ill  have  many 
a  night  among  the  classics,  but  .  .  .  this  is 
bad  news  for  the  Glen,  come  who  may  in  your 
place,"  and  then,  though  each  man  did  his  part 
bravely,  it  was  a  cheerless  evening. 

Next  day  Domsie  left  to  make  his  pious  pil- 
grimage, and  on  the  Sabbath  there  was  only  one 
subject  in  the  kirkyard. 

"  Div  ye  no  think,  neebours,"  said  Hillocks,  after 
a  tribute  had  been  paid  to  Domsie's  services,  "  that 
he  oucht  tae  get  some  bit  testimonial?  It  wudna 
be  wiselike  tae  let  him  slip  oot  o'  the  schule  withoot 
a  word  frae  the  Glen." 

Hillocks  paused,  but  the  fathers  were  so  much 


346    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

astonished  at  Hillocks  taking  the  initiative  in  ex- 
penditure that  they  waited  for  further  speech. 

"  Noo,  Pitscothrie  is  no  a  pairish  tae  pit  beside 
Drumtochty  for  ae  meenut,  but  when  their  Dominie 
gied  up  his  post,  if  the  bodies  didna  gather  fifty 
pund  for  him ;  they  ca'd  it  a  purse  o'  sovereigns  in 
the  Advertiser,  but  that  was  juist  a  genteel  name 
for't. 

"  A'm  no  sayin',"  continued  Hillocks,  "  that  it 
wud  be  safe  tae  trust  Domsie  wi'  as  mickle  siller 
at  a  time;  he  wud  be  off  tae  Edinburgh  an'  spend 
it  on  auld  bukes,  or  may  be  divide  it  up  amang  his 
students.  He's  careless,  is  Domsie,  an'  inclined  to 
be  wastefu'  ;  but  we  micht  gie  him  somethin'  tae 
keep." 

"  What  wud  ye  say,"  suggested  Whinnie,  when 
the  kirkyard  was  revolving  the  matter,  "  if  we  got 
him  a  coo  'at  wud  gie  him  milk  and  be  a  bit  troke 
tae  occupy  his  time?  What  he  didna  need  cud  be 
made  into  butter  and  sent  tae  Muirtown ;  it  wud  be 
a  help." 

"  Ye  have  an  oreeginal  mind,"  said  Jamie,  who 
always  on  those  occasions  pitied  the  woman  that 
was  married  to  Whinnie,  "  an'  a'm  sure  yir  per- 
posal  '11  be  remembered.  Domsie  feedin'  his  coo 
on  the  road-side,  wi'  a  Latin  buke  in  his  hand,  wud 
be  interestin'." 

"  It's  most  aggravatin',"  broke  in  Hillocks,  who 
was  much  annoyed  at  the  turn  things  had  taken, 
"  that  ye  winna  gie  me  time  tae  feenish,  an'  'ill  set 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    347 

Domsie  stravaging  the  roads  at  the  tail  o'  a  coo  for 
his  last  days." 

"  It  was  Jamie,"  remonstrated  Whinnie. 

"  Haud  yir  tongue."  Hillocks  felt  the  time  was 
short,  and  he  had  an  idea  that  must  be  ventilated. 
"  A  was  considerin'  that  Domsie's  snuff-box  is 
gey  far  thro'  wi't.  A'm  judjin'  it  has  seen  thirty 
years,  at  ony  rate,  and  it  was  naethin  tae  boast  o' 
at  the  beginnin'.  A've  seen  fresh  hinges  pit  on  it 
twice  masel. 

"  Now,  gin  we  bocht  a  snod  bit  silver  boxie  ain 
pit  an  inscription  on't  wi' 

PRESENTED  TO 

MR.  PATRICK  JAMIESON, 

LATE  SCHOOLMASTER  OF  DRUMTOCHTY, 
BY  A  FEW   FRIENDS, 

it  wud  be  usefu'  for  ae  thing,  it  wud  be  bonnie  for 
anither,  aye,  an'  something  mair,"  and  Hillocks 
grew  mysterious. 

"  A  legacy,  div  ye  mean,"  inquired  Jamie,  "  or 
what  are  ye  aifter?" 

"  Weel,  ye  see,"  exclaimed  Hillocks  with  much 
cunning,  "  there's  a  man  in  Kildrummie  got  a  box 
frae  his  customers,  an'  it's  never  oot  o'  his  hand. 
When  he  taps  the  lid  ye  can  see  him  reading  the 
inscription,  and  he's  a  way  o'  passin'  it  tae  ye  on 
the  slant  that's  downricht  clever.  Ye  canna  help 
seein'  the  words." 

"  Gin  we  were  thinkin'  aboot  a  present  tae  a 


348    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

coal  agent  or  a  potato  dealer,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  wud 
hae  the  box  wi'  the  words,  but  Domsie's  a  queer 
body,  an'  a'm  jalousin'  that  he  wud  never  use  yir 
grand  silver  box  frae  the  day  he  got  it,  an'  a'm 
dootin'  it  micht  be  sold  fer  some  laddie  to  get  him 
better  keep  at  the  college. 

"  Besides,"  continued  Jamie  thoughtfully,  "  a'm 
no  sure  that  ony  man  can  tak  up  wi'  a  new  box 
after  fifty.  He's  got  accustomed  tae  the  grip  o' 
the  aujd  box,  and  he  kens  whar  tae  pit  in  his 
thumb  and  finger.  A  coont  that  it  taks  aboot  fifteen 
year  tae  grow  into  a  snuff-box. 

"  There's  juist  ae  ttiing  Domsie  cares  aboot,  an' 
it's  naither  meat  nor  drink,  nor  siller  snuff-boxes; 
it's  his  college  laddies,  gettin'  them  forrit  and  payin' 
their  fees,  an'  haudin'  them  in  life  till  they're  dune." 

By  this  time  the  kirkyard  was  listening  as  one 
man  and  with  both  ears,  for  it  was  plain  Jamie  had 
an  idea. 

"  Ca'  on,  Jamie,"  encouraged  Drumsheugh,  who 
had  as  yet  given  no  sign. 

"  He's  hed  his  ain  time,  hes  Domsie,  gaein' 
roond  Muirtown  market  collectin'  the  bank  notes 
for  his  scholars  an'  seein'  they  hed  their  bukes. 
A'm  no  denyin'  that  Domsie  was  greedy  in  his  ain 
way,  and  gin  the  Glen  cud  gither  eneuch  money 
tae  foond  a  bit  bursary  for  puir  scholars  o'  Drum- 
tochty,  a  wudna  say  but  that  he  micht  be  pleased." 

The  matter  was  left  in  Drumsheugh's  hands,  with 
Doctor  Davidson  as  consulting  counsel^  and  he 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    349 

would  tell  nothing  for  a  fortnight.  Then  they 
saw  in  the  Dunleith  train  that  he  was  charged  with 
tidings,  and  a  meeting  was  held  at  the  junction, 
Peter  being  forbidden  to  mention  time,  and  com- 
manded to  take  the  outcasts  of  Kildrummie  up  by 
themselves  if  they  couldn't  wait. 

"  The  first  man  a  mentioned  it  tae  was  oor  Saun- 
ders,  an'  he  said  naethin'  at  the  time,  but  he  cam 
up  in  the  forenicht,  and  slippit  a  note  in  ma  hand. 
'  He  didna  pit  mickle  intae  me,'  says  he,  '  but  he's 
daein'  fine  wi'  the  bairns.'  Neebur,  a  kent  that 
meenut  that  the  Glen  wud  dae  something  handsome. 

"  Next  morning  a  gied  a  cry  at  the  Free  Manse, 
and  telt  Maister  Carmichael.  If  he  was  na  oot  o' 
the  room  like  a  man  possessed,  and  he  gied  me  every 
penny  he  hed  in  the  hoose,  ten  pund  five  shilling. 
And  at  the  gate  he  waved  his  hat  in  the  air,  and 
cries,  '  The  Jamieson  Bursary.' 

"  It  was  ae  note  from  one  man  an'  three  f rae 
his  neebur,  an'  twa  shilling  frae  the  cottars.  Abody 
has  dune  his  pairt,  one  hundred  an'  ninety-two 
pounds  frae  the  Glen. 

"  We  sent  a  bit  letter  tae  the  Drumtochty  fouk 
in  the  Sooth,  and  they's  sent  fifty-eight  pounds, 
wi'  mony  good  wishes,  an'  what  na  think  ye  hev 
the  auld  scholars  sent?  A  hundred  and  forty, 
pounds.  An'  last  nicht  we  hed  three  hundred  and 
ninety  pounds." 

"  Ma  word !  "  was  all  Hillocks  found  himself 
able  to  comment ;  "  that  wad  get  a  richt  snuff-box." 


350    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

"  Ye  hev  mair  tae  tell,  Drumsheugh,"  said  Jamie ; 
"  feenish  the  list." 

"  Yere  a  wratch,  Jamie,"  responded  the  treasurer 
of  the  Jamieson  Bursary  Fund.  "  Hoo  did  ye  ken 
aboot  the  Doctor  ?  says  he  tae  me  laist  nicht,  '  here's 
a  letter  to  Lord  Kilspindie.  Give  it  to  him  at  Muir- 
town,  and  I  would  not  say  but  he  might  make  the 
sum  up  to  four  hundred.'  So  a  saw  his  lordship 
in  his  room,  and  he  wrote  a  cheque  and  pit  in  a 
letter,  an'  says  he,  '  Open  that  in  the  Bank,  Drums- 
heugh,' an'  a  did.  It  was  for  ten  pounds,  wi'  a 
hundred  on  tae't,  making  up  £500.  Twenty  pund 
a  year  tae  a  Drumtochty  scholar  for  ever. 
Jamie,"  said  Drumsheugh,  "  ye've  gotten  yir 
bursary." 

It  was  arranged  that  the  meeting  of  celebration 
should  be  held  in  the  parish  kirk,  which  in  those 
days  was  used  for  nothing  except  Divine  worship; 
but  the  Doctor  declared  this  to  be  no  exception  to 
his  rule. 

"  Kirk  and  school  have  been  one  in  Scotland 
since  John  Knox's  day,  and  one  they  shall  be  while 
I  live  in  Drumtochty;  we  'ill  honour  him  in  the 
kirk,  for  the  good  the  Dominie  has  done  to  the 
bairns,  and  to  pure  learning." 

The  meeting  was  delayed  till  Professor  Ross  had 
come  home  from  Australia,  with  his  F.R.S.  and  all 
his  other  honours,  for  he  was  marked  out  to  make 
the  presentation;  and  every  Drumtochty  scholar 
within  reach  was  enjoined  to  attend. 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    351 

They  came  from  Kildrummie  at  various  hours 
and  in  many  conveyances,  and  Hillocks  checked 
the  number  at  the  bridge  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  Atvveen  yesterday  and  the  day,"  he  reported 
to  Jamie,  in  the  afternoon,  "  aucht  and  twenty 
scholars  hae  passed,  no  including  the  Professor,  and 
there's  fower  expected  by  the  next  train;  they'll 
just  be  in  time,"  which  they  were,  to  everybody's 
delight. 

"  It's  a  gude  thing,  Hillocks,"  said  Jamie,  "  that 
bridge  was  mended ;  there's  been  fifty  degrees  gane 
over  it  the  day,  Hillocks !  to  say  naithin'  o'  a  wecht 
o'  knowledge." 

The  Doctor  had  them  all,  thirty-three  University 
men,  with  Domsie  and  Carmichael  and  Weelum 
MacLure,  as  good  a  graduate  as  any  man,  to  dinner, 
and  for  that  end  had  his  barn  wonderfully  prepared. 
Some  of  the  guests  have  written  famous  books 
since  then,  some  are  great  preachers  now,  some 
are  chief  authorities  to  science,  some  have  never 
been  heard  of  beyond  a  little  sphere,  some  are  liv- 
ing, and  some  are  dead ;  but  all  have  done  their 
part,  and  each  man  that  night  showed,  by  the  grip 
of  his  hand,  and  the  look  on  his  face,  that  he  knew 
where  his  debt  was  due. 

Domsie  sat  on  the  Doctor's  right  hand,  and  the 
Professor  on  his  left,  and  a  great  effort  was  made  at 
easy  conversation,  Domsie  asking  the  Professor 
three  times  whether  he  had  completely  recovered 
from  the  fever  which  had  frightened  them  all  so 


352    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

much  in  the  Glen,  and  the  Professor  congratulating 
the  Doctor  at  intervals  on  the  decorations  of  the 
dinner  hall.  Domsie  pretended  to  eat,  and  declared 
he  had  never  made  so  hearty  a  dinner  in  his  life, 
but  his  hands  could  hardly  hold  the  knife  and  fork, 
and  he  was  plainly  going  over  the  story  of  each  man 
at  the  table,  while  the  place  rang  with  reminiscences 
of  the  old  school  among  the  pines. 

Before  they  left  the  barn,  Doctor  Davidson  pro- 
posed Domsie's  health,  and  the  laddies — all  laddies 
that  day — drank  it,  some  in  wine,  some  in  water, 
every  man  from  the  heart,  and  then  one  of  them, — 
they  say  it  was  a  quiet  divine — started,  in  face  of 
Doctor  Davidson,  "  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow," 
and  there  are  those  who  now  dare  to  say  that  the 
Doctor  joined  in  with  much  gusto,  but  in  these  days 
no  man's  reputation  is  safe. 

Domsie  was  not  able  to  say  much,  but  he  said 
more  than  could  have  been  expected.  He  called 
them  his  laddies  for  the  last  time,  and  thanked 
them  for  the  kindness  they  were  doing  their  old 
master.  There  was  not  an  honour  any  one  of  them 
had  won,  from  a  prize  in  the  junior  Humanity  to 
the  last  degree,  he  could  not  mention. 

Before  sitting  down  he  said  that  they  all  missed 
George  Howe  that  day,  and  that  Marget,  his  mother, 
had  sent  her  greetings  to  the  scholars. 

Then  they  went  to  the  kirk,  where  Drumtochty 
was  waiting,  and  as  Domsie  came  in  with  his  laddies 
round  him  the  people  rose,  and  would  have  cheered 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    353 

had  they  been  elsewhere  and  some  one  had  led. 
The  Doctor  went  into  the  precentor's  desk  and 
gave  out  the  hundredth  psalm,  which  is  ever  sung 
on  great  days  and  can  never  be  sung  dry.  After 
which  one  of  the  thirty-three  thanked  the  Almighty 
for  all  pure  knowledge,  all  good  books,  all  faithful 
teachers,  and  besought  peace  and  joy  for  "  our  dear 
master  in  the  evening  of  his  days." 

It  was  the  Professor  who  read  the  address  from 
the  scholars,  and  this  was  the  last  paragraph. 

"  Finally,  we  assure  you  that  none  of  us  can  ever  forget 
the  parish  school  of  Drumtochty,  or  fail  to  hold  in  tender 
remembrance  the  master  who  first  opened  to  us  the  way  of 
knowledge,  and  taught  us  the  love  thereof. 
"  We  are,  so  long  as  we  live, 

"  Your  grateful  and  affectionate 

"  SCHOLARS." 

Then  came  the  names  with  all  the  degrees,  and 
the  congregation  held  their  breath  to  the  last 
M.A. 

"  Now,  Drumsheugh,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  that 
worthy  man  made  the  great  speech  of  his  life,  ex- 
pressing the  respect  of  the  Glen  for  Domsie,  assign- 
ing the  glory  of  a  brilliant  idea  to  Jamie  Soutar, 
relating  its  triumphant  accomplishment,  describing 
the  Jamieson  Bursary,  and  declaring  that  while  the 
parish  lasted  there  would  be  a  Jamieson  scholar 
to  the  honour  of  Domsie's  work.  For  a  while  Dom- 
sie's  voice  was  very  shaky  when  he  was  speaking 


354    THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE 

about  himself,  but  afterwards  it  grew  strong  and 
began  to  vibrate,  as  he  implored  the  new  generation 
to  claim  their  birthright  of  learning  and  to  remem- 
ber that  "  the  poorest  parish,  though  it  have  but 
bare  fields  and  humble  homes,  can  yet  turn  out 
scholars  to  be  a  strength  and  credit  to  the  common- 
wealth." 

The  Professor  saw  Domsie  home,  and  noticed 
that  he  was  shaking  and  did  not  wish  to  speak. 
He  said  goodbye  at  the  old  schoolhouse,  and  Ross 
caught  him  repeating  to  himself: 

"  Eheu  fugaces,  Postume,  Postume, 
Labuntur  anni." 

but  he  seemed  very  content. 

Ross  rose  at  daybreak  next  morning  and  wan- 
dered down  to  the  schoolhouse,  recalling  at  every 
step  his  boyhood  and  early  struggles,  the  goodness 
of  Domsie,  and  his  life  of  sacrifice.  The  clearing 
looked  very  peaceful,  and  the  sun  touched  with 
beauty  the  old  weather-beaten  building  which  had 
been  the  nursery  of  so  many  scholars,  but  which 
would  soon  be  deserted  for  ever.  He  pushed  the 
door  open  and  started  to  see  Domsie  seated  at  the 
well-known  desk,  and  in  his  right  hand  firmly 
clasped  the  address  which  the  scholars  had  present- 
ed to  him.  His  spectacles  were  on  his  forehead, 
his  left  elbow  was  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair, 
and  Ross  recognised  the  old  look  upon  his  face. 


THE  PASSING  OF  DOMSIE    355 

It  used  to  come  like  a  flash  when  a  difficult  passage 
had  suddenly  yielded  up  its  hidden  treasure,  and 
Ross  knew  that  Domsie  had  seen  the  Great  Secret, 
and  was  at  last  and  completely  satisfied. 


DR.    DAVIDSON'S    LAST 
CHRISTMAS 


DR.  DAVIDSON'S  LAST  CHRISTMAS 

Christmas  fell  on  a  Sunday  the  year  Dr.  David- 
son died,  and  on  the  preceding  Monday  a  groom 
drove  up  to  the  Manse  from  Muirtown  Castle. 

"  A  letter,  Doctor,  from  his  lordship " — John 
found  his  master  sitting  before  the  study  fire  in 
a  reverie,  looking  old  and  sad — "  and  there's  a  bit 
boxie  in  the  kitchen." 

"  Will  you  see,  John,  that  the  messenger  has 
such  food  as  we  can  offer  him  ?  "  and  the  Doctor 
roused  himself  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  hand- 
writing ;  "  there  is  that,  eh,  half-fowl  that  Rebecca 
was  keeping  for  my  dinner  to-day;  perhaps  she 
could  do  it  up  for  him.  I  ...  do  not  feel 
hungry  to-day.  And,  John,  will  you  just  say  that 
I'm  sorry  that  .  .  .  owing  to  circumstances, 
we  can't  offer  him  refreshment?"  On  these  oc- 
casions the  Doctor  felt  his  straitness  greatly, 
having  kept  a  house  in  his  day  where  man  and  beast 
had  of  the  best. 

"  What  dis  for  the  minister  of  Drumtochty  an' 
his  .  .  .  hoose  'ill  dae  for  a  groom,  even 
though  he  serve  the  Earl  o'  Kilspindie,  an'  a'  ken 
better  than  say  onything  tae  Becca  aboot  the 
chuckie ; "  this  he  said  to  himself  on  his  way  to  the 

359 


360  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

kitchen,  where  that  able  woman  had  put  the  mes- 
senger from  the  castle  in  his  own  place,  and  was 
treating  him  with  conspicuous  and  calculated  con- 
descension. He  was  a  man  somewhat  given  to  ap- 
petite, and  critical  about  his  drink,  as  became  a 
servant  of  the  Earl;  but  such  was  the  atmosphere 
of  the  manse  and  the  awfulness  of  the  Doctor's 
household  that  he  made  a  hearty  dinner  off  ham 
and  eggs,  with  good  spring  water,  and  departed 
declaring  his  gratitude  aloud. 

"  MY  DEAR  DAVIDSON, — 

"  Will  you  distribute  the  enclosed  trifle  among 
your  old  pensioners  in  the  Glen  as  you  may  see 
fit,  and  let  it  come  from  you,  who  would  have 
given  them  twice  as  much  had  it  not  been  for 
that  confounded  bank.  The  port  is  for  yourself, 
Sandeman's  '48 — the  tipple  you  and  I  have  tasted 
together  for  many  a  year.  If  you  hand  it  over 
to  the  liquidators,  as  you  wanted  to  do  with  the 
few  bottles  you  had  in  your  cellar,  I'll  have  you 
up  before  the  Sheriff  of  Muirtown  for  breach  of 
trust  and  embezzlement  as  sure  as  my  name  is 

"  Your  old  friend, 

"  KlLSPINDIE." 

"  P.S. — The  Countess  joins  me  in  Christmas 
greetings  and  charges  you  to  fail  us  on  New  Year's 
Day  at  your  peril.  We  are  anxious  about  Hay, 
who  has  been  ordered  to  the  front." 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  361 

The  Doctor  opened  the  cheque  and  stroked  it 
gently;  then  he  read  the  letter  again  and  snuffed, 
using  his  handkerchief  vigorously.  After  which  he 
wrote : — 

"  DEAR  KILSPINDIE, — 

"  It  is,  without  exception,  the  prettiest  cheque 
I  have  ever  had  in  my  hands,  and  it  comes  from 
as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived.  You  knew  that 
it  would  hurt  me  not  to  be  able  to  give  my  little 
Christmas  gifts,  and  you  have  done  this  kindness. 
Best  thanks  from  the  people  and  myself,  and  as 
for  the  port,  the  liquidators  will  not  see  a  drop 
of  it.  Don't  believe  any  of  those  stories  about 
the  economies  at  the  manse  which  I  suspect  you 
have  been  hearing  from  Drumtochty.  Deliberate 
falsehoods;  we  are  living  like  fighting  cocks.  I'm 
a  little  shaky — hint  of  gout,  I  fancy — but  hope 
to  be  with  you  on  New  Year's  Day.  God  bless  you 
both,  and  preserve  Hay  in  the  day  of  battle. 
"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  ALEXANDER  DAVIDSON/' 

"  Don't  like  that  signature,  Augusta,"  said  the 
Earl  to  his  wife ;  "  '  yours  affectionately  '  it's  true 
enough,  for  no  man  has  a  warmer  heart,  but  he 
never  wrote  that  way  before.  Davidson's  break- 
ing up,  and  ...  he  'ill  be  missed.  I  must  get 
Manley  to  run  out  here  and  overhaul  him  when 
Davidson  comes  down  on  New  Year's  Day.  My 


362  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

belief  is  that  he's  been  starving  himself.  Peter 
Robertson,  the  land  steward,  says  that  he  has  never 
touched  a  drop  of  wine  since  that  bank  smashed ; 
now  that  won't  do  at  our  age,  but  he's  an  obstinate 
fellow,  Davidson,  when  he  takes  a  thing  into  his 
head." 

The  Doctor's  determination — after  the  calamity 
of  the  bank  failure — to  reduce  himself  to  the 
depths  of  poverty  was  wonderful,  but  Drumtochty 
was  cunning  and  full  of  tact.  He  might  surrender 
his  invested  means  and  reserve  only  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year  out  of  his  living,  but  when  he  sent 
for  the  Kildrummie  auctioneer  and  instructed 
him  to  sell  every  stick  of  furniture,  except  a  bare 
minimum  for  one  sitting-room  and  a  bedroom, 
Jock  accepted  the  commission  at  once,  and  pro- 
ceeded at  eleven  miles  an  hour — having  just 
bought  a  new  horse — to  take  counsel  with  Drums- 
heugh.  Next  Friday,  as  a  result  thereof,  he 
dropped  into  the  factor's  office — successor  to  him 
over  whom  the  Doctor  had  triumphed  gloriously 
— and  amid  an  immense  variety  of  rural  informa- 
tion, mentioned  that  he  was  arranging  a  sale  of 
household  effects  at  Drumtochty  Manse.  Jock  was 
never  known  to  be  so  dilatory  with  an  advertisement 
before,  and  ere  he  got  it  out  Lord  Kilspindie  had 
come  to  terms  with  the  liquidator  and  settled  the 
Doctor's  belongings  on  him  for  life. 

The  Doctor's  next  effort  was  with  his  house- 
hold, and  for  weeks  the  minister  looked  wistfully 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  363 

at  John  and  Rebecca,  till  at  last  he  called  them 
in  and  stated  the  situation. 

"  You  have  both  been  .  .  .  good  and  faith- 
ful servants  to  me,  indeed  I  may  say  .  .  . 
friends  for  many  years,  and  I  had  hoped  you  would 
have  remained  in  the  Manse  till  ...  so  long 
as  I  was  spared.  And  I  may  mention  now  that  I 
had  made  some  slight  provision  that  would  have 
;  .  .  made  you  comfortable  after  I  was  gone." 

"  It  wes  kind  o'  ye,  sir,  an'  mindfu'."  Rebecca 
spoke,  not  John,  and  her  tone  was  of  one  who  might 
have  to  be  firm  and  must  not  give  herself  away  by 
sentiment. 

"  It  is  no  longer  possible  for  me,  through  .  .  . 
certain  events,  to  live  as  I  have  been  accustomed 
to  do,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  .  .  . 
do  without  your  help.  A  woman  coming  in  to 
cook  and  .  .  .  such  like  will  be  all  I  can 
afford." 

The  expression  on  the  housekeeper's  face  at  this 
point  was  such  that  even  the  Doctor  did  not  dare  to 
look  at  her  again,  but  turned  to  John,  whose  coun- 
tenance was  inscrutable. 

"  Your  future,  John,  has  been  giving  me  much 
anxious  thought,  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing with  Lord  Kilspindie  next  week.  There  are 
many  quiet  places  on  the  estate  which  might  suit 
.  .  ."  then  the  Doctor  weakened,  "although  I 
know  well  no  place  will  ever  be  like  Drumtochty, 
and  the  old  Manse  will  never  be  the  same  .  .  . 


364  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

without  you.  But  you  see  how  it  is  .  .  . 
friends." 

"  Doctor  Davidson,"  and  he  knew  it  was  vain 
to  escape  her,  "  wi'  yir  permission  a'  wud  like  tae 
ask  ye  ane  or  twa  questions,  an'  ye  'ill  forgie  the 
leeberty.  Dis  ony  man  in  the  Pairish  o'  Drum- 
tochty  ken  yir  wys  like  John?  Wha  'ill  tak  yir 
messages,  an'  prepare  the  fouk  for  the  veesitation, 
an'  keep  the  gairden  snod,  an'  see  tae  a'  yir  trokes 
when  John's  awa?  Wull  ony  man  ever  cairry  the 
bukes  afore  ye  like  John  ?  " 

"  Never,"  admitted  the  Doctor,  "  never." 

"  Div  ye  expect  the  new  wumman  'ill  ken  hoo 
mickle  stairch  tae  pit  in  yir  stock,  an'  hoo  mickle 
butter  ye  like  on  yir  chicken,  an'  when  ye  change 
yir  flannels  tae  a  day,  an'  when  ye  like  anither 
blanket  on  yir  bed,  an'  the  wy  tae  mak  the  currant 
drink  for  yir  cold  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Rebecca,  nobody  will  ever  be  so  good 
to  me  as  you've  been  " — the  Doctor  was  getting 
very  shaky. 

"  Then  what  for  wud  ye  send  us  awa,  and  bring 
in  some  handless,  useless  tawpie  that  cud  neither 
cook  ye  a  decent  meal  nor  keep  the  Manse  wise  like  ? 
Is't  for  room?  The  Manse  is  as  big  as  ever.  Is't 
for  meat?  We  'ill  eat  less  than  she  'ill  waste." 

"You  know  better,  Rebecca,"  said  the  Doctor, 
attempting  to  clear  his  throat ;  "  it's  because  .  .  . 
because  I  cannot  afford  to  .  .  ." 

"  A'  ken  very  weel,  an'  John  an'  me  hev  settled 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  365 

that  For  thirty  year  ye've  paid  us  better  than  ony 
minister's  man  an'  manse  hoosekeeper  in  Perthshire, 
an'  ye  wantit  tae  raise  oor  wages  aifter  we  mairrit. 
Div  ye  ken  what  John  an'  me  hev  in  the  bank  for 
oor  laist  days?" 

The  Doctor  only  shook  his  head,  being  cowed 
for  once  in  his  life. 

"  Atween  us,  five  hundred  and  twenty-sax  pund." 

"  Eleven  an'  sevenpence,"  added  John,  steady- 
ing his  voice  with  arithmetic. 

"  It's  five  year  sin  we  askit  ye  tae  py  naethin* 
mair,  but  juist  gie's  oor  keep,  an'  noo  the  time's 
come,  an'  welcome.  Hev  John  or  me  ever  dis- 
obeyed ye  or  spoken  back  a'  thae  years  ?  " 

The  Doctor  only  made  a  sign  with  his  hand. 

"  We  'ill  dae't  aince,  at  ony  rate,  for  ye  may  gie 
us  notice  tae  leave  an'  order  us  oot  o-'  the  manse; 
but  here  we  stop  till  we're  no  fit  tae  serve  ye  or  ye 
hae  nae  mair  need  o'  oor  service." 

"  A  homologate  that  " — it  was  a  brave  word,  and 
one  of  which  John  was  justly  proud,  but  he  did  not 
quite  make  the  most  of  it  that  day. 

"  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  and  .  .  .  I'll 
never  speak  of  parting  again,"  and  for  the  first 
time  they  saw  tears  on  the  Doctor's  cheek. 

"John,"  Rebecca  turned  on  her  husband — no 
man  would  have  believed  it  of  the  beadle  of  Drum- 
tochty,  but  he  was  also  ..."  what  are  ye 
stoiterin'  roond  the  table  for?  it's  time  tae  set  the 
Doctor's  denner;  as  for  that  chicken "  and  Re- 


366  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

becca  retired  to  the  kitchen,  having  touched  her 
highest  point  that  day. 

The  insurrection  in  the  manse  oozed  out,  and 
encouraged  a  conspiracy  of  rebellion  in  which  even 
the  meekest  people  were  concerned.  Jean  Baxter, 
of  Burnbrae,  who  had  grasped  greedily  at  the  dairy 
contract  of  the  manse,  when  the  glebe  was  let  to 
Netherton,  declined  to  render  any  account  to  Re- 
becca, and  the  Doctor  had  to  take  the  matter  in 
hand. 

"  There's  a  little  business,  Mrs.  Baxter,  I  would 
like  to  settle  with  you,  as  I  happen  to  be  here." 
The  Doctor  had  dropped  in  on  his  way  back  from 
Whinny  Knowe,  where  Marget  and  he  had  been 
talking  of  George  for  two  hours.  "  You  know  that 
I  have  to  be,  eh  ...  careful  now  and  I 
.  .  .  you  will  let  me  pay  what  we  owe  for  that 
delicious  butter  you  are  good  enough  to  supply." 

"  Ye  'ill  surely  tak  a  look  roond  the  fields  first, 
Doctor,  an'  tell's  what  ye  think  o'  the  crops ; "  and 
after  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  take  tea. 
Again  and  again  he  was  foiled,  but  he  took  a  firm 
stand  by  the  hydrangea  in  the  garden,  where  he  had 
given  them  Lord  Kilspindie's  message,  and  John 
Baxter  stood  aside  that  the  affair  might  be  decided 
in  single  combat. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Baxter,  before  leaving,  I  must  in- 
sist," began  the  Doctor  with  authority,  and  his  stick 
was  in  his  hand ;  but  Jean  saw  a  geographical  ad- 
vantage, and  seized  it  instantly. 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  367 

"Div  ye  mind,  sir,  comin'  tae  this  gairden  five 
year  syne  this  month,  and  stannin'  on  that  verra 
spot  aside  the  hydrangy  ?  " 

The  Doctor  scented  danger,  but  he  could  not  re- 
treat. 

"  Weel,  at  ony  rate,  John  an'  me  dinna  forget 
that  day,  an'  never  wull,  for  we  were  makin'  ready 
tae  leave  the  home  o'  the  Baxters  for  mony  gener- 
ations wi'  a  heavy  heart,  an'  it  wes  you  that  stoppit 
us.  Ye  'ill  maybe  no  mind  what  ye  said  tae  me." 

"We  'ill  not  talk  of  that  to-day,  Mrs.  Baxter 
.  .  .  that's  past  and  over." 

"  Aye,  it's  past,  but  it's  no  over,  Doctor  David- 
son; na,  na,  John  an'  me  wesna  made  that  wy. 
Ye  may  lauch  at  a  fulish  auld  wife,  but  ilka  kirnin' 
(churning)  day  ye  veesit  us  again.  When  a'm 
turnin'  the  kirn  a'  see  ye  comin'  up  the  road  as 
ye  did  that  day,  an'  a'  gar  the  handle  keep  time 
wi'  yir  step;  when  a'  tak  oot  the  bonnie  yellow 
butter  ye're  stannin'  in  the  gairden,  an'  then  a' 
stamp  ae  pund  wi'  buttercups,  an'  a'  say,  '  You're 
not  away  yet,  Burnbrae,  you're  not  away  yet ' — 
that  wes  yir  word  tae  the  gude  man;  and  when 
the  ither  stamp  comes  doon  on  the  second  pund 
and  leaves  the  bonnie  daisies  on't,  '  Better  late  than 
never,  Burnbrae;  better  late  than  never,  Burnbrae.' 
Ye  said  that  afore  ye  left,  Doctor." 

Baxter  was  amazed  at  his  wife,  and  the  Doctor 
saw  himself  defeated. 

"  Mony  a  time  hes  John  an'  me  sat  in  the  sum- 


368  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

mer-hoose  an'  brocht  back  that  day,  an'  mony  a 
time  hev  we  wantit  tae  dae  somethin'  for  him  that 
keepit  the  auld  roof-tree  abune  oor  heads.  God 
forgie  me,  Doctor,  but  when  a'  heard  ye  hed  gien 
up  yir  glebe  ma  hert  loupit,  an'  a'  said  tae  John, 
'  The'ill  no  want  for  butter  at  the  manse  sae  lang 
as  there's  a  Baxter  in  Burnbrae/ 

"  Dinna  be  angry,  sir,"  but  the  flush  that  brought 
the  Doctor's  face  unto  a  state  of  perfection  was 
not  anger.  "  A'  ken  it's  a  leeberty  we're  takin', 
an'  maybe  a'm  presumin'  ower  far,  but  gin  ye  kent 
hoo  sair  oor  herts  were  wi'  gratitude  ye  wudna  deny 
us  this  kindness." 

"  Ye  'ill  lat  the  Doctor  come  awa  noo,  gude  wife, 
tae  see  the  young  horse,"  and  Doctor  Davidson  was 
grateful  to  Burnbrae  for  covering  his  retreat. 

This  spirit  spread  till  Hillocks  lifted  up  his  horn, 
outwitting  the  Doctor  with  his  attentions,  and  re- 
ducing him  to  submission.  When  the  beadle 
dropped  in  upon  Hillocks  one  day,  and,  after  a 
hasty  review  of  harvest  affairs,  mentioned  that  Doc- 
tor Davidson  was  determined  to  walk  in  future  to 
and  from  Kildrummie  Station,  the  worthy  man  rose 
without  a  word,  and  led  the  visitor  to  the  shed 
where  his  marvellous  dog-cart  was  kept. 

"  Div  ye  think  that  a'  cud  daur  ?  "  studying  his 
general  appearance  with  diffidence. 

"  There's  nae  sayin'  hoo  it  micht  look  wi'  a  wash," 
suggested  John. 

"  Sail,  it's  fell  snod  noo,"  after  two  hours'  honest 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  369 

labour,  in  which  John  condescended  to  share,  "  an' 
the  gude  wife  'ill  cover  the  cushions.  Dinna  lat 
on,  but  a'll  be  at  the  gate  the  morn  afore  the  Doctor 
starts,"  and  Peter  Bruce  gave  it  to  be  understood 
that  when  Hillocks  convoyed  the  Doctor  to  the  com- 
partment of  the  third  rigidly  and  unanimously  re- 
served for  him,  his  manner,  both  of  walk  and  con- 
versation was  changed,  and  it  is  certain  that  a 
visit  he  made  to  Piggie  Walker  on  the  return  jour- 
ney was  unnecessary  save  for  the  purpose  of  vain 
boasting.  It  was  not,  however,  to  be  heard  of  by 
the  Doctor  that  Hillocks  should  leave  his  work  at 
intervals  to  drive  him  to  Kildrummie,  and  so  there 
was  a  war  of  tactics,  in  which  the  one  endeavoured 
to  escape  past  the  bridge  without  detection,  while 
the  other  swooped  down  upon  him  with  the  dog- 
cart. On  the  Wednesday  when  the  Doctor  went  to 
Muirtown  to  buy  his  last  gifts  to  Drumtochty,  he 
was  very  cunning,  and  ran  the  blockade  while  Hil- 
locks was  in  the  corn  room,  but  the  dog-cart  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  evening — Hillocks  having 
been  called  to  Kildrummie  by  unexpected  business, 
at  least  so  he  said — and  it  was  a  great  satisfaction 
afterwards  to  Peter  Bruce  that  he  placed  fourteen 
parcels  below  the  seat  and  fastened  eight  behind — 
besides  three  which  the  Doctor  held  in  his  hands, 
being  fragile,  and  two,  soft  goods,  on  which  Hil- 
locks sat  for  security.  For  there  were  twenty-seven 
humble  friends  whom  the  Doctor  wished  to  bless 
on  Christmas  Day. 


370  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

When  he  bade  the  minister  good-bye  at  his  gate, 
Hillocks  prophesied  a  storm,  and  it  was  of  such  a 
kind  that  on  Sunday  morning  the  snow  was  knee 
deep  on  the  path  from  the  manse  to  the  kirk,  and  had 
drifted  up  four  feet  against  the  door  through  which 
the  Doctor  was  accustomed  to  enter  in  procession. 

"  This  is  unfortunate,  very  unfortunate,"  when 
John  reported  the  state  of  affairs  to  the  Doctor, 
"  and  we  must  just  do  the  best  we  can  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, eh  ?  " 

"What  wild  be  yir  wull,  sir?"  but  John's  tone 
did  not  encourage  any  concessions. 

"  Well,  it  would  never  do  for  you  to  be  going 
down  bare-headed  on  such  a  day,  and  it's  plain 
we  can't  get  in  at  the  front  door.  What  do  you 
say  to  taking  in  the  books  by  the  side  door,  and 
I'll  just  come  down  in  my  top  coat,  when  the  people 
are  gathered  " ;  but  the  Doctor  did  not  show  a  firm 
mind,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was  thinking  less 
of  himself  than  of  John. 

"  A'll  come  for  ye  at  the  usual  'oor,"  was  all  that 
functionary  deigned  to  reply,  and  at  a  quarter  to 
twelve  he  brought  the  gown  and  bands  to  the  study 
— he  himself  being  in  full  black. 

"  The  drift  'ill  no  tribble  ye,  an'  ye  'ill  no  need 
tae  gang  roond ;  na,  na,"  and  John  could  not  quite 
conceal  his  satisfaction,  "  we  'ill  no  start  on  the 
side  door  aifter  five  and  thirty  years  o'  the  front." 

So  the  two  old  men — John  bare-headed,  the 
Doctor  in  full  canonicals  and  wearing  his  college 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  371 

cap — came  down  on  a  fair  pathway  between  two 
banks  of  snow  three  feet  high,  which  Saunders 
from  Drumsheugh  and  a  dozen  plowmen  had 
piled  on  either  side.  The  kirk  had  a  severe  look 
that  day,  with  hardly  any  women  or  children  to 
relieve  the  blackness  of  the  men,  and  the  drifts 
reaching  to  the  sills  of  the  windows,  while  a  fringe 
of  snow  draped  their  sides. 

The  Doctor's  subject  was  the  love  of  God,  and 
it  was  noticed  that  he  did  not  read,  but  spoke 
as  if  he  had  been  in  his  study.  He  also  dwelt  so 
affectingly  on  the  gift  of  Christ,  and  made  so  tender 
an  appeal  unto  his  people,  that  Drumsheugh  blew 
his  nose  with  vigour,  and  Hillocks  himself  was 
shaken.  After  they  had  sung  the  paraphrase — 

"  To  Him  that  lov'd  the  souls  of  men, 
And  washed  us  in  His  blood," 

the  Doctor  charged  those  present  to  carry  his 
greetings  to  the  folk  at  home,  and  tell  them  they 
were  all  in  his  heart.  After  which  he  looked  at 
his  people  as  they  stood  for  at  least  a  minute,  and 
then  lifting  his  hands,  according  to  the  ancient  fash- 
ion of  the  Scottish  Kirk,  he  blessed  them.  His 
gifts,  with  a  special  message  to  each  person,  he  sent 
by  faithful  messengers,  and  afterwards  he  went  out 
through  the  snow  to  make  two  visits.  The  first  was 
to  blind  Marjorie,  who  was  Free  Kirk,  but  to  whom 
he  had  shown  much  kindness  all  her  life.  His  talk 
with  her  was  usually  of  past  days  and  country  af- 
fairs, seasoned  with  wholesome  humour  to  cheer 


372  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

her  heart,  but  to-day  he  fell  into  another  vein,  to 
her  great  delight,  and  they  spoke  of  the  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence. 

" '  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth/  Mar- 
jorie,  is  a  very  instructive  Scripture,  and  I  was 
thinking  of  it  last  night.  You  have  had  a  long 
and  hard  trial,  but  you  have  doubtless  been  blessed, 
for  if  you  have  not  seen  outward  things,  you  have 
seen  the  things  ...  of  the  soul."  The  Doc- 
tor hesitated  once  or  twice,  as  one  who  had  not  long 
travelled  this  road. 

"  You  and  I  are  about  the  same  age,  Marjorie, 
and  we  must  soon  .  .  .  depart.  My  life  was 
very  .  .  .  prosperous,  but  lately  it  has  pleased 
the  Almighty  to  ...  chasten  me.  I  have 
now,  therefore,  some  hope  also  that  I  may  be  one 
of  His  children." 

"  He  wes  aye  gude  grain,  the  Doctor,"  Marjorie 
said  to  her  friend  after  he  had  left,  "  but  he's  hed 
a  touch  o'  the  harvest  sun,  and  he's  been  ripening." 

Meanwhile  the  Doctor  had  gone  on  to  Tochty 
Lodge,  and  was  standing  in  the  stone  hall,  which 
was  stripped  and  empty  of  the  Carnegies  for  ever. 
Since  he  was  a  laddie  in  a  much-worn  kilt  and 
a  glengarry  bonnet  without  tails,  he  had  gone  in 
and  out  the  Lodge,  and  himself  had  seen  four 
generations — faintly  remembering  the  General's 
grandfather.  Every  inch  of  the  house  was  familiar 
to  him,  and  associated  with  kindly  incidents.  He 
identified  the  spaces  on  the  walls  where  the  por- 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  373 

traits  of  the  cavaliers  and  their  ladies  had  hung; 
he  went  up  to  the  room  where  the  lairds  had  died 
and  his  friend  had  hoped  to  fall  on  sleep ;  he  visited 
the  desolate  gallery  where  Kate  had  held  court  and 
seemed  to  begin  a  better  day  for  the  old  race ;  then 
he  returned  and  stood  before  the  fireplace  in  which 
he  had  sat  long  ago  and  looked  up  to  see  the  stars  in 
the  sky.  Round  that  hearth  many  a  company  of 
brave  men  and  fair  women  had  gathered,  and  now 
there  remained  of  this  ancient  stock  but  two  exiles — 
one  eating  out  his  heart  in  poverty  and  city  life, 
and  a  girl  who  had  for  weal  or  woe,  God  only  knew, 
passed  out  of  the  line  of  her  traditions.  A  heap  of 
snow  had  gathered  on  the  stone,  where  the  honest 
wood  fire  had  once  burned  cheerily,  and  a  gust  of 
wind  coming  down  the  vast  open  chimney  powdered 
his  coat  with  drift.  It  was  to  him  a  sign  that  the 
past  was  closed,  and  that  he  would  never  again 
stand  beneath  that  roof. 

He  opened  the  gate  of  the  manse,  and  then, 
under  a  sudden  impulse,  went  on  through  deep 
snow  to  the  village  and  made  a  third  visit — to 
Archie  Moncur,  whom  he  found  sitting  before  the 
fire  reading  the  Temperance  Trumpet.  Was  there 
ever  a  man  like  Archie? — so  gentle  and  fierce,  so 
timid  and  fearless,  so  modest  and  persevering.  He 
would  stoop  to  lift  a  vagrant  caterpillar  from  the 
cart  track,  and  yet  had  not  adjectives  to  describe 
the  infamy  of  a  publican;  he  would  hardly  give 
an  opinion  on  the  weather,  but  he  fought  the  drink- 


374  DR-  DAVIDSON'S 

ing  customs  of  the  Glen  like  a  lion ;  he  would  only 
sit  in  the  lowest  seat  in  any  place,  but  every  winter 
he  organised — at  great  trouble  and  cost  of  his  slen- 
der means — temperance  meetings  which  were  the 
fond  jest  of  the  Glen.  From  year  to  year  he  toiled 
on,  without  encouragement,  without  success,  hope- 
ful, uncomplaining,  resolute,  unselfish,  with  the  soul 
of  a  saint  and  the  spirit  of  a  hero  in  his  poor,  de- 
formed, suffering  little  body.  He  humbled  himself 
before  the  very  bairns,  and  allowed  an  abject  like 
Milton  to  browbeat  him  with  Pharisaism,  but  every 
man  in  the  Glen  knew  that  Archie  would  have  gone 
to  the  stake  for  the  smallest  jot  or  tittle  of  his 
faith. 

"  Archie,"  said  the  Doctor,  who  would  not  sit 
down,  and  whose  coming  had  thrown  the  good 
man  into  speechless  confusion,  "  it's  the  day  of  our 
Lord's  birth,  and  I  wish  to  give  you  and  all  my 
friends  of  the  Free  Kirk — as  you  have  no  mini- 
ster just  now — hearty  Christmas  greeting.  May 
peace  be  in  your  kirk  and  homes  .  .  .  and 
hearts. 

"  My  thoughts  have  been  travelling  back  of  late 
over  those  years  since  I  was  ordained  minister 
of  this  parish  and  the  things  which  have  happened, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  man  has  done  his  duty 
by  his  neighbour  or  before  God  with  a  more  single 
heart  than  you,  Archie. 

"  God  bless  you."  Then  on  the  doorstep  the  Doc- 
tor shook  hands  again  and  paused  for  a  minute. 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  375 

"  You  have  fought  a  good  fight,  Archie — I  wish  we 
could  all  say  the  same  ...  a  good  fight." 

For  an  hour  Archie  was  so  dazed  that  he  was 
not  able  to  say  a  word,  and  could  do  nothing  but 
look  into  the  fire,  and  then  he  turned  to  his  sisters, 
with  that  curious  little  movement  of  the  hand  which 
seemed  to  assist  his  speech. 

"  The  language  wes  clean  redeeklus,  but  it  wes 
kindly  meant  .  .  .  an'  it  maks  up  for  mony 
things.  .  .  .  The  Doctor  wes  aye  a  gentleman, 
an'  noo  ...  ye  can  see  that  he's  .  .  . 
something  mair." 

Drumsheugh  dined  with  the  Doctor  that  night, 
and  after  dinner  John  opened  for  them  a  bottle 
of  Lord  Kilspindie's  wine. 

"  It  is  the  only  drink  we  have  in  the  house,  for 
I  have  not  been  using  anything  of  that  kind  lately, 
and  I  think  we  may  have  a  glass  together  for  the 
sake  of  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

They  had  three  toasts,  "  The  Queen,"  and  "  The 
Kirk  of  Scotland,"  and  "  The  friends  that  are  far 
awa,"  after  which — for  the  last  included  both  the 
living  and  the  dead — they  sat  in  silence.  Then  the 
Doctor  began  to  speak  of  his  ministry,  lamenting 
that  he  had  not  done  better  for  his  people,  and  de- 
claring that  if  he  were  spared  he  intended  to  preach 
more  frequently  about  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

"  You  and  I,  Drumsheugh,  will  have  to  go  a 
long  journey  soon,  and  give  an  account  of  our 
lives  in  Drumtochty.  Perhaps  we  have  done  our 


376  DR.  DAVIDSON'S 

best  as  men  can,  and  I  think  we  have  tried;  but 
there  are  many  things  we  might  have  done  other- 
wise, and  some  we  ought  not  to  have  done  at  all. 

"  It  seems  to  me  now,  the  less  we  say  in  that 
day  of  the  past  the  better.  .  .  .  We  shall  wish 
for  mercy  rather  than  justice,  and  " — here  the  Doc- 
tor looked  earnestly  over  his  glasses  at  his  elder 
— "  we  would  be  none  the  worse,  Drumsheugh,  of 
a  friend  to  ...  say  a  good  word  for  us  both 
in  the  great  court." 

"  A've  thocht  that  masel  " — it  was  an  agony  for 
Drumsheugh  to  speak — "  mair  than  aince.  Wee- 
lum  MacLure  wes  .  .  .  ettlin'  (feeling)  aifter 
the  same  thing  the  nicht  he  slippit  awa,  an'  gin  ony 
man  cud  hae  studa  on  his  ain  feet  .  .  .  yonder, 
it  was  .  .  .  Weelum." 

The  Doctor  read  the  last  chapter  of  the  Revela- 
tion of  St.  John  at  prayers  that  evening  with  much 
solemnity,  and  thereafter  prayed  concerning  those 
who  had  lived  together  in  the  Glen  that  they  might 
meet  at  last  in  the  City. 

"  Finally,  most  merciful  Father,  we  thank  Thee 
for  Thy  patience  with  us  and  the  goodness  Thou 
hast  bestowed  upon  us,  and  for  as  much  as  Thy 
servants  have  sinned  against  Thee  beyond  our 
knowledge,  we  beseech  Thee  to  judge  us  not  ac- 
cording to  our  deserts,  but  according  to  the  merits 
and  intercession  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord."  He 
also  pronounced  the  benediction — which  was  not  his 
wont  at  family  worship — and  he  shook  hands  with 


LAST  CHRISTMAS  377 

his  two  retainers;  but  he  went  with  his  guest  to 
the  outer  door. 

"  Good-bye,  Drumsheugh  .  .  .  you  have 
been  ...  a  faithful  friend  and  elder." 

When  John  paid  his  usual  visit  to  the  study  be- 
fore he  went  to  bed,  the  Doctor  did  not  hear  him 
enter  the  room.  He  was  holding  converse  with 
Skye,  who  was  seated  on  a  chair,  looking  very  wise 
and  much  interested. 

"  Ye're  a  bonnie  beastie,  Skye  " — like  all  Scots, 
the  Doctor  in  his  tender  moments  dropped  into 
dialect — "  for  a'thing  He  made  is  verra  gude. 
Ye've  been  true  and  kind  to  your  master,  Skye, 
and  ye  'ill  miss  him  if  he  leaves  ye.  Some  day  ye 
'ill  die  also,  and  they  'ill  bury  ye,  and  I  doubt  that 
'ill  be  the  end  o'  ye,  Skye. 

"  Ye  never  heard  o'  God,  Skye,  or  the  Saviour, 
for  ye're  juist  a  puir  doggie;  but  your  master  is 
minister  of  Drumtochty,  and  ...  a  sinner 
saved  ...  by  grace." 

The  Doctor  was  so  much  affected  as  he  said  the 
last  words  slowly  to  himself  that  John  went  out  on 
tiptoe,  and  twice  during  the  night  listened — fancy- 
ing he  heard  Skye  whine.  In  the  morning  the 
Doctor  was  still  sitting  in  his  big  chair,  and  Skye 
was  fondly  licking  a  hand  that  would  never  again 
caress  him,  while  a  miniature  of  Daisy — the  little 
maid  who  had  died  in  her  teens,  and  whom  her 
brother  had  loved  to  his  old  age — lay  on  the  table, 
and  the  Bible  was  again  open  at  the  description  of 
the  New  Jerusalem, 


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